 Chapter 1 of D-99. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jerry Pyle. D-99 by H.B. Fife. Chapter 1. At the 99th floor, Westerville left the public elevator for a private automatic one when she took four floors further. When he stepped out, the dark lean youth faced an office entrance whose double transparent doors bore the discrete legend, Department 99. He crossed the hall and entered. Waving at the little blonde in the switchboard cubby to the right of the doorway, he continued a few steps into the office beyond. Two secretaries looked up from the row of desks facing him, a third place being unoccupied. Behind them, long windows filtered the late afternoon light to a mellow tint. Did you get it all right, Willie? asked the dark girl to his left. Mr. Smith wants you to take it right in. He expected you earlier. My flight from London was late. I did the best I could after we landed, said Westerville. It took me the whole day to fetch this gadget. At least let me get my coat off. He moved to his right, to a modest desk in an alcove formed by the end of the office, and the high partition that enclosed the switchboard. How do you find yourself inside that? asked the other secretary, a golden-haired girl with a lazy smile. Talk about women's clothes, the men are wearing topcoats like tents this year. Westerville felt himself flushing to his disgust. He struggled out of the coat, removed an oblong package and a large envelope from inner pockets and tossed the coat on his desk. It had hardly settled before the door at the opposite end of the office, beyond the dark girl, was flung open. From the next room lumbered a man who looked even lankier than Westerville because he was an inch or two over six feet tall. His broad forehead was grooved by a scowl of concentration that brought heavy eyebrows nearly together over a high-bridge nose. His chin seemed longer for his chewing nervously upon his lower lip. He was in shirt sleeves and badly needed a haircut. I'm going down to the calm room, Miss Diorio, he told the brunette. There's another weird report coming in. He vanished into the hall with a clatter. His secretary looked at Westerville, a smile tugging at the corners of her full lips. She threw up her hands with a little flip. I told you to take it right in, she reminded him. Oh, come on, Si. What if I'd been in the doorway when he came through? What is it anyway? asked the other girl. Westerville looked around as she rose. Beryl Austin, he thought, would be a knockout if only there were less of a hint of ice about her. She was, in her eye heels, only an inch shorter than he. Her face was round, but with a delicate bone structure that lented an odd beauty. Westerville was privately of the opinion that she spoiled the effect by wearing her hair in a style too short and too precisely arranged and too bleached, he told himself. The talk was that, before coming to the department, she had won two or three minor beauty contests. That might explain the meticulous makeup and the smart blue dress that followed the curves of her figure so flatteringly. Westerville suspected, from hints dropped by Simonetta Diorio, that this was insufficient qualification for being a secretary, even in such a peculiar institution as Department 99. Of course, maybe Smith had ideas of making her a field agent. He held out the package in the palm of his hand. They said at London Lab that it was a special flashlight that would pass for an ordinary one. Oh, the one for the Antares case, exclaimed Beryl. Si was telling me how they'll send out plans of that. Did they show you how it works? It gives just a dim beam until you press an extra switch, said Westerville. Then it puts out a series of dashes bright enough to hurt your eyes. What in the world do they want that for? asked Beryl. What in some other world do you mean? On some of these planets, the native life is so used to a dim red sun that a flash like this on their sensitive eyes can knock them unconscious. This place is just full of dirty tricks like that, said the blonde. Why can't they free these people some other way? Westerville and Simonetta looked at each other. Beryl had been in the department only a few weeks and did not yet seem to have heard the word. Or understand it maybe, thought Westerville. She might not look half so intelligent without that nice chest expansion. Some of them just seemed in trouble, Simonetta was saying. The laws of alien peoples we've been meeting around the galaxy don't necessarily make sense to Terrans. But why can't they stay away from such queer places? What would you do, asked Westerville? If you were in a spaceship that blew up near a strange planetary system and you took an emergency rocket to land on the best looking planet and the local bims arrested you because they have a law against anyone passing through their system without special permission. But how can they make a law like that? demanded Beryl. Who says they can't? They had a war with beings from the star nearest them and wound up suspicious of every kind of spaceship. We have a case like that now. They've been working on it two months, Simonetta confirmed. Those poor men were jailed over a month before anybody even heard about them. Beryl shrugged and turned back to her desk. Westerville watched her walk thinking that the rear elevation was good too until it occurred to him that Simonetta might be taking in his expression. The blonde settled herself and leaned back to stretch. He was willing to bet ten credits that she did it just to get his goat. Well the work is interesting Beryl admitted but I don't see why it can't be done by the department of interstellar relations. The DIR has trained diplomats and knows all about dealing with aliens. Come on now dear said Simonetta. Where do you think your paycheck originates? Publicly the DIR doesn't like to admit that we exist. To hide the connection they named us after the floor we're on in this building and hope that nobody would notice us. I knew I was getting into something crooked exclaimed Beryl. It depends said Westerville. Suppose some tarant spacer is slung into jail out there somewhere for something that would never be a crime in the solar system. The DIR protests and the BIM simply deny they have him. How far can diplomacy go? We tried getting him out some other way. He held up the flashlight. Now there are stellar facts, plans of this out to Anne Terrace to our field agents. After one is made and smuggled into our case all they have to do is run in a fast ship and pick him up when he breaks out. Speaking of that gadget Simonetta suggested why don't you take it down to Mr. Smith? He must be waiting out the message in the calm room. Westerville agreed. He took the package in the envelope of blueprints and walked into the hall. He turned first to his right along the base of the U-shaped corridor then to his left after passing the door to the fire stairs at the inner corner and the private entrance to Smith's office opposite it. The walls were covered by a grey plastic that was softly monotonous in the light of the luminous ceiling. The floor nearly black was of a springy composition that deadened the sound of footfalls. Along the wing of the U into which he turned Westerville passed doors to the department's reference library and to a conference room on his right and portal marked Shaft on his left. Beyond the ladder was a section of blank wall behind which he knew was a special Shaft for the power conduits that supplied the department's own communications instruments. The place was a self-sufficient unit he reflected. It had its own TV equipment and a subspace radio for reaching far out spaceships. Although most routine traffic was boosted through relay stations on the outer planets of the solar system. Some lines of communication with the field agents were tenuous but messages usually got through. If the lines broke down, someone would be sent to search the confidential files for a roundabout connection. I wonder how many of us would wind up in court if those files became public knowledge, thought Westerville. I'd like to see them trying to handle Smitty. Nobody here can figure him out all the time and we're at least half as nutty as he is. Down beside the communications room, though normally reached by the other wing of the corridor would enclose the core of elevators, shafts and restrooms. The department even had a confidential laboratory. Actually, this was more in the nature of a stock room for peculiar gadgets and implements used for the fell purposes of the organization. Westerville did not like to wander about in there for fear of setting something off. It was more or less the domain of the one man in the department whom he knew to have been in an alien prison. Robert Leidman was an ex-spacer who would join the group after having been rescued from just such an incarceration as he now specialized in cracking. Westerville had been told that the sojourn among the stars had left Leidman and trifle strange, which was probably why they no longer used him as a field agent. He came to the blank end of the corridor, the last door on the right being that of the communications room. He opened it and stuck his head inside. The room was dimmer than the corridor. The operators who sometimes had to contend with much-relayed faint images on their screens liked it that way. They kept the window filters adjusted so that it might as well be night outside. Here and there, small lights glowed at various radio receivers or tape recording instruments, and there was a pervading background rustle of static blended with quiet whistles and mutterings. At the moment, the operator on duty was Charlie Colburn, a quiet redhead who kept a locker full of electronic gadgets for tinkering during slow periods. Smith sat in a room in a straight-back chair, watching the screen before Colburn. A message was coming in from Pluto Relay. Westerville recognized the distant operator who spoke briefly to Colburn before putting the message through. The next face, blurry from repeated boosting of the image, was that of a stranger. This is Johnson, on trident, the man said. Capella Ford tells me they gave you the facts about Harris. That right? Smith hitched himself closer so the transmitter lens could pick him up. Westerville tiptoed inside and found himself a stool. We just got the outline, Smith said. You say this spacer is being held by the natives and they won't let you communicate with them. Have you reported to the DIR? The distance and the relaying caused a few seconds of lag, even with the ultra-modern subspace equipment. I am the DIR, said the face on the screen after a bitter pause, along with several other jobs, commercial and official. There are only a few of us Terrans at this post, you know. The natives won't even admit they have him. Then how can you be sure they do? And why can't you get to him somehow? We know because he managed to get a message out. I think, Johnson frowned doubtfully. That is, he did if we can believe the messenger. We made inquiries of the natives, but it is impossible to make much of an investigation because their civilization is an underwater one. Smith noticed Westerville. Willie, he whispered hastily. Get on the phone and have one of the girls stop in the library and fetch me the volume of the Galatlas with Trident in it. Westerville dropped his package on a table and punched Barrel's number on the nearest phone. Meanwhile, with its weird pauses, the interstellar talk continued. The missing Terran, Harris by name, had insisted against all advice at the outpost on one of the watery planet's few islands upon conducting submarine exploration in a converted space scout. Since 95% of the surface of Trident was ocean, Johnson had only a vague idea of where Harris had gone. The point was that the explorer had been too long out of touch. The natives, a sea people of crustacean evolution who were to be found over most of the ocean bottom and who had a considerable culture with permanent cities and jet-propelled submarine vehicles, admitted to having heard of Harris but denied knowledge of his whereabouts. So we reported to the DIR sector headquarters, Johnson concluded. They sent an expert to coax the Tridentian officials into visiting the shallows for a conference, but nothing came of it. Then we called in one of your field agents and he referred us to you. Barrel entered the room quietly, bearing a large book. Westerville held out his hand for it, but she seemed not to see him until he rose to offer her the stool. When he turned his attention back to the screen, Smith was probing for information which the distant Johnson signed a reluctant to give. But if they deny everything, how do you know he's not dead instead of being held in one of their cities? Why do you think he's being made a sort of exhibit? Johnson hemmed and hawed but finally confessed. Besides the crustaceans who were about man-sized and civilized, there was another form of intelligent, or at least semi-intelligent life on Trident. Certain large, fish-like inhabitants of the Planet Seas had been contacted more than once to deliver messages to the exploring members of the outpost. This was always promptly accomplished by having one of the fish contact another of the same species who was in the right location. What did you say? Demanded Smith? Telepathic? A telepathic fish? Oh no, don't ask us to. Well, what I mean is, how do you know they're reliable? More in the same vein followed. Westervilt stopped listening when he realized that Smith was being convinced, willing or not. Stranger things were on record on the immensity of the known galaxy, but Smith took the attitude that they were all applaud against Department 99. Westervilt pried the book from Beryl's grasp and turned over pages to the article on the Planet Trident. He skimmed the opening, which dealt with galactic coordinates and the type of the star at the center of the system. I did the same with the general description of the surface and what was known of the life forms there. A history since discovery was leconically brief. Here it is, he told himself. A species of life resembling a tarned fish in general configuration, about 20 feet in length and suspected of having some undetermined sense whereby individuals can locate each other at great distances. Well, by the time it's in print, it's outdated. Someone turned on a bright light and he realized the interstellar talk was at an end. Smith looked around. He held out his hand for the book, seeming to take for granted that someone should have found the page. I don't see how we're going to reach this one, he grunted, plopping the volume down on the table to scan the article. Colburn snatched at a small piece of apparatus he had evidently been assembling. Only Beryl was impressed. The others knew that Smith said this of every new case. Tell Mr. Leidman and Mr. Parrish I want a conference, the department had requested. We'll use the room next door. Beryl and Westervilt left Colburn in his gadgets suspiciously and retraced their steps up the corridor. At the door to the main office, the blonde left him, presumably to go through to the corner office occupied by Parrish, who's secretary she was. Westervilt dwelt on the thought of sending her on her way with a small pat, but forced himself to continue up the other wing of the U. He passed two doors on his left, another conference room and a spare office used mainly for old files. Doors to his right led to washrooms. This end of the hall was not blank as on the other side it had a door labeled laboratory, no admittance. The last door to the left corresponded to the location of the communications room led to Leidman's office. Westervilt knocked, waited for the sound of a voice inside and walked in. For a moment he saw no one, then pivoted to his right as he remembered that Leidman kept his desk on the inner wall around the short corner behind the door. Everyone else who had a corner office sat out by the windows. He found himself facing a heavy man whose bleached crew cut and tanned features bespoke much time spent outdoors. Very beautiful eyes of a dark gray blue regarded him steadily until Westervilt felt a panicky urge to run. Instead he cleared his throat and gave Smith's message. Leidman always had the same effect on him for the first few minutes. Although he seemed to like Westervilt better than anyone else in the office, even to the point of inviting him home for weekends of swimming. I always get the feeling that it looks right through me at Westervilt, but I can't see an inch into him. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of D-99 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Jerry Pyle Chapter 2 Caster P. Smith sat at the head of his steel and plastic table in the conference room, whistling thoughtfully and waited for his assistance. Next door in the communications room, the tortured tune his lips emitted would have been treated as deliberate jamming. Simonetta Diario entered carrying a recorder and he roused himself for a smile of appreciation. You won't forget to turn it on when you start, Mr. Smith? She pleaded. I'll keep my finger on the switch until then, he grinned. Thanks, Psy. Left alone again, he told himself he would have to do something about the reputation he was acquiring. Quite without foundation, he believed he was being absent-minded. After all, he was hardly likely to forget to record a conference when it was his own idea. So many ideas were tossed around on a good day that some were bound to be lost unless they were down on tape. Even a good steno like Simonetta could not guarantee to keep up with it all when two or three got to talking at once. Generally, he admitted to himself he erased the tape without the necessity of filing some brilliant solution. Still, the one in a thousand that did turn up made the precaution worthwhile. The volume of the Galatlas he had brought from the communications room. Sometimes in this job, he lost his sense of galactic direction. Calls were likely to come in from stars of which he had never heard. Wish I could get a little more help from the D.I.R., he thought. It's more than having one secretary on vacation just now. We're always shorthanded. They never brought us up to strength since old Murphy blew himself up in the lab with that little redhead. Maybe Willie will grow into something. We ought to have some kind of training school. In Smith's opinion, he should have had a larger force of full-time agents in the field, but he recognized the difficulties inherent in the immensity of Terran-influenced space. Even recruiting was a hit or miss process. He had made various working arrangements out of chance contacts with independent spacers. He supposed that it was unofficially expected of him, and most had worked out well. About a dozen routine cases were currently being handled out there somewhere by a motley crew of his own men, and piratical temporary help. In addition, there were three hot cases that had required supervision from headquarters. I wonder if we should stay a little late tonight, he asked himself. I hate to ask them again, but who knows what will break with this new skullcracker. He looked up as Pete Parrish entered. His dapper assistant walked around the other end of the table and took a seat on the window side. I hear you have another one, he greeted Smith. Parrish was a trim man of 36 or 37, just about average in height, but slim enough to seem taller. Smith was aware that the other took considerable pains to maintain that slimness. By his own account he rode well and played a fast game of squash. The wave in his dark hair was somewhat suppressed by careful grooming. He smiled frequently or at least made a show of gleaming teeth. But at other times, his neat regular features were disciplined into a perfect mask. Thank God that he doesn't wear a mustache, thought Smith. That would put him over the brink. He was reasonably certain that Parrish had given the idea careful calculation and stopped just short of the brink. That would be typical of the man. He had been at one time a publicist, then a salesman, on Tara, and in space. Actually, he should have been a confidence man. It was not until the department had stumbled across him that he had found opportunity to exercise his real talents. He was expert at estimating alien psychology and constructing rationalizations with which to thwart it. Smith realized self-consciously that he had been staring through Parrish. He passed one hand down the back of his neck, reminding himself that he must get a haircut. He could not imagine why he kept forgetting. It occurred to him every time he faced Parrish. He decided further to wear a freshly pressed suit the next day. Leibman padded in, glanced about the room, and sat down as near to the door as he could, without leaving an obvious gap between himself and the others. He eyed Parrish briefly and raised one hand to check the scar for his throat. Leibman dressed unobtrusively and probably would have preferred an old-fashioned tie to the bright neck scar favored by current fashion. I wonder why I'll get all the nuts, Smith asked himself, avoiding the beautiful eyes by looking squarely between them. Even the girls, people with romantic ideas of cloak and dagger work, were the ones that always favors, keep sending us peaches. Then they marry off or go around acting so secretive that they draw attention to us. Sometimes he had to admit he would have preferred having a babe marry and leave the department. Parrish was often helpful in such situations, which was only fair since he created most of them. Twice divorced the assistant had lost none of his interest in women. He was as clever at feminine psychology as that alien. Well, I suppose you've heard something of the new squawks, Smith said, to break the silence. I just don't see how we're going to reach this one. The damn fool got himself taken on an ocean bottom. He proceeded to outline the facts so far reported. Parrish received them impassively. Leibman began to scowl. The X-spacer developed special grudges against aliens who attempted to conceal the detention of Terrans. First let's see where we are before we tackle this, suggested Smith. I've given you enough on Harris to let it percolate through your minds while we reviewed the other cases. It looks like something we should all be in on. Sometimes he would put a case in the charge of one of them, but they were accustomed to exchanging information and advice. This business of the two spacers who were nailed for unauthorized entry to the Sasokan system seems about ripe, he reminded them. Taranto and Myers, you remember. Oh yes, said Leibman in a withdrawn tone. The dope. That's right. There was no trouble getting information about them just in comprehending the idiot reasoning that would maintain a law that makes it a crime to crash land on that planet. Terra, like any other stellar government, has permitted one official resident there. Fortunately, we got the DIR to slip him a little memo about us before he was taken out, and this is the outcome. They may even be on the loose right now. Let me see, Mused Parish. Bob gave you the formula for something that practically suspends animation, didn't he? Yeah, said Leibman. We figured on the bastards to carry the bodies out and dump them. A bunch of tramp spacers are standing by to pick them up. No reason why it shouldn't work, said Smith. Variations of it have been keeping us in business. Someday we'll slip up just by relying on it too much, but this looks okay. How is your Greenhaven case coming, Pete? Parish hesitated before answering. He stroked the edge of the table with well manicured fingertips, as he considered. Maria Ringstag, he said thoughtfully. These reporters should be more careful. Should have some knowledge of the cultures they poke into. Greenhaven is hardly a colony to swash a buckle through. I suppose she never thought they would bother a newswoman. Did you ever get the answer to what she was after on Greenhaven? Nothing. Just passing through, Parish snapped his fingers in contempt. She was on a space liner en route to Altair 7 to gather material for a book. It stopped on Greenhaven to deliver a consignment of laboratory instruments. Those greenies Leidman put in are as crazy as bims. What a way to live. They have been described as the bluest colony ever derived from Terra, agreed Smith. I shudder to think of the life Pete would lead there. Parish smiled, but not very deeply. Ms. Ringstag's mistake was fairly simple in mind, and he said. They had official prices posted in that shop she visited for souvenirs. When they claimed to be out of the article she fancied, she had the bad taste to offer a bonus price. On Greenhaven, this is regarded as bribery, immorality, and economics aversion to touch merely upon the highlights. Smith sighed, why will these young girls run around doing? I don't believe you could call her a girl exactly, Parish interrupted. Well, this lady then. I wouldn't guarantee that either. Parish shrugged and pursed his lips. You'd be a better judge than I, he admitted innocently. I yield the superior qualifications. Lightman grinned, Parish maintained his mask. I suppose that might make it even more dangerous for her, Smith went on. I forget what you said the sentence was, but suppose she starts to get smart in jail. Would any snappy Terran humor pass there? By no means said Parish emphatically. I would not expect him to burn her at the stake in this day and age. But they would talk about it as being one of the good old ways. Fortunately, they're speaking and writing Terran and makes this easy. Terrans are all black sinners, but plenty of Terrans are necessary around the spaceports. We keep a few agents among them. One of them is going to pull the paper trick to Springer. I'd rather leave them a bomb, said Lightman almost to himself. Smith frequently wondered what such a rugged man should speak in, so quiet a voice. At times, Lightman used a monotone that was barely audible. We hoped to destroy all evidence, sighed Parish. Otherwise, it will lead to the usual diplomatic notes, and the D.I.R. will be telling us we never were authorized to do any such thing. Yes, said Smith, noninquirrely. Actually, you couldn't find our specific duties written down anywhere, and there is nothing we are forbidden to do either. As long as it succeeds, well, none of us will see the day when the D.I.R. will publicly recognize us to the extent of chopping our heads into the basket. They have been yapping at me, though, for drawing complaints in the Gerson case. Lightman had been sitting with his gaze narrowed upon a pencil gripped in his big fists. Now he raised his head, sensing interference in his own project. How can the Yolenites complain? They claim they don't even have Gerson. Easy, Smith soothed him. We have an embassy in Spaceport there, remember, that you've been relying on. You had to make some inquiries, didn't you? Had to confirm the report somehow. All we had was the story of a kidnapping from the captain of that freighter. It might not have been true. I realized that, said Smith. It would have been the first time a spacer got left behind because he didn't make countdown, because they didn't want him around to pay off. Sure, Parrish agreed smoothly. You could tell us about that. Lightman turned to look at him, so suddenly that a silence fell among them. Parrish averted his gaze uncomfortably and reached into the breast pocket of his maroon jacket for a box of cigarettes. He busied himself puffing one a light from the chemical lighter set in the bottom of the box. One day I'll have to pull them apart, thought Smith, and I'm not big enough. Where does my wife get the nerve to say the neighbors don't know what to make of an average guy like me just because I can't talk about my work? At any rate, he said quietly, they took the attitude that even asked them about the incident was insulting. It seemed to rock the top brass. What do they know about Yolene Grau Lightman giving up his scrutiny of Parrish? Not a thing, probably. They make decisions on the basis of how many toes they stubbed lately. Right now, it sounds like only routine panic. That reminds me, I meant to check that he shoved back his chair and stepped over to a phone table nearby. Switching on both screen and sound, he waited until the cute little blonde at the board came on. Pauline, get me Imel Stark at the DIR, please. Extension 1563. Yes, Mr. Smith said Pauline and disappeared from the screen. In a few moments, Smith was greeting a man of about 50 gray at the temples to the point of appearing over distinguished. Listen, Imel, he said, getting down to business after the amenities about families and children had been observed. I have a case on my hands concerning a planet named Yolene. The man on the screen was already nodding. Yes, I heard they were chewing you out about that this morning, he said, smiling. I trust you preserved some sort of sang froid. What's in their minds, asked Smith. Oh, it seems that the space force is nervous over the Yoleneites. They are unable to evaluate the culture comfortably. To cover themselves, I imagine they send a warning now and then on the possibilities of hostile relations. Anything to it? Let's start grimace briefly. Unlikely, some of the lads upstairs let it make them nervous. Smith chuckled. Upstairs. They came and went, but Stark and men like him ran things and knew what went on. Then I can go ahead without covering my tracks too deeply, he asked. I mean, I won't have to lie openly to my boss. Give him a few days to see the other side, Stark assured him, and he will be demanding to know why you have not taken steps. Have them taken by then. Smith thanked him for the advice, switched off and returned to his place at the table. Nods from the others confirmed that they had heard. I have a feeling about those Yoleneites grumbled Leidman. Smith waited for elucidation, but the big man had sunk into contemplation. The other two eyed him, then each other. Perish shrugged ever so slightly. Smith nodded his lower lip. Well, then you'll be going ahead with what you planned, he reminded Leidman. Oh, sure, answered the X-Basement snapping out of it. Can't hope it. I've already sent him something useful. Something useful was Leidman's term for a cleverly designed breakout instrument. Smith hoped that in this case it would not turn out to be a bomb. We dug a little mechanical crawler out of the files Leidman went on. The Yoleneites seemed to build their cities like a conglomeration of Pueblos, very intricate and with hardly any open streets. There would probably be a hundred roots into Gerson, even if we knew exactly where he is. The gadget is adjusted to home on certain body temperatures, which it can detect at some distance. There's a living thing there at 98.6. Exactly. Of course the thing has a general direction and search pattern microtaped in. That's the best they could do, because the boys have only a rough idea of where the cell would be. It sounds too easy to intercept, objected Parish. That worries me a little, admitted Leidman. It would be worse to fly something in and it's impossible to send anyone in because they say they haven't got him. The gadget is set to have an affinity for dark corners at least. There's a good music player with microtapes that will actually play it for a couple of hours. They can't tell for sure that Gerson didn't have it with him if they spotted it at all. When he opens the back as a little jingle in the first tune will instruct him to do. He has a miniature torch hot enough to cut the guts out of any lock between him and the outside. Someone will be watching for him, I suppose, asked Smith. Sure, once he's out of the place, the Yolenites can hardly demand that we give back what they say they never had. Off to the embassy with him and onto the first ship. They won't even have grounds for an official complaint. The other two avoided looking at him for a moment. Parish stirred uneasily. I hope it. What I mean is these Yolenites give me an uneasy feeling the same as they do you, Bob. Experience tells me that some of those highlight cultures think along peculiar lines. No wonder the space force finds them hard to understand. I recommend that we open a general file on them. It might be just as well, Smith agreed, considering they may give us more business in the future. He pushed back his chair and rose. Let's take a break while I see if any reports have come in. Then maybe we can work out something on the new mess. End of Chapter 2. D99 by HB5 Chapter 3 This LibriVox recording is in public domain. Louis Taranto sat on his heels against the Beyclay wall of the cell, watching the sweat run down the face of his companion. Though he privately considered Harvey Meyers a very weak link, he had so far restrained himself from hinting as much. They were in this hole together and he might well need the blubbery loudmouths help to get out, if there were any way to get out. Meyers sat on the single bench with which their jailers had provided them, staring mournfully at the rude table upon which he rested his elbows. He was unusually quiet as if the heat had drained him of all anxiety. Sloppy bum, thought Taranto. He could at least comb his hair. They were allowed occasional access to toilet articles of sokins that obtained from the one Taran officially in residence on the planet. Taranto had shade the day before, but the other had not bothered for more than a week. Meyers was perhaps an inch short of six feet and must weigh two hundred pounds, Taran. He had a loose mouth between pudgy cheeks. His little blue eyes seemed always to be prying, except during periods such as the present, when he was feeling sorry for himself. He had been a medic in the same spaceship in which Taranto had been a ventilation mechanic. Glad I was never sick, Taranto muttered to himself. Meyers looked up. Huh? I said I'm glad I was never sick, repeated Taranto deliberately, thinking let him figure that out if he can. This heats enough to make anybody sick, complained Meyers. Why do they have to keep us up on the top floor of the tower anyway? What kind of jail were you ever in where their prisoners got the best? Who says I was ever in jail, demated Meyers defensively. Taranto grinned slightly, but made no reply. After a moment the other returned to his study of the table. He breathed in loudly, his shoulders trembling as if he had been running. To avoid the sight, Taranto let his eyes wander for the thousandth time around the walls of the square cell. The large blocks of baked clay were turning from done to gray and the twilight seeping through the four small window openings. Overhead they curved together to form a high arch that was the peak of the tower. Besides table and bench, the room contained a clay water jug, a yard high, a wooden bucket, a battered copper cooking pot, and a pile of coarse straw upon which lay the two gray shirts the spacers had discarded in the heat. In the center of the floor was a wooden trap door which Taranto eyed speculatively. He reminded himself that he must suppress his longing to smash the next Ahsoken head that appeared in the opening. It's getting near time, he remarked after a few minutes. Meyers peered at the patches of sky revealed by the windows. They were losing the glare of Ahsoken daylight. There had been a wisp or two of cloud earlier, but these had either blown over or faded into the deepening gray of the sky. Listen at the door, Order Taranto, impatient at having to remind the other. He rose, wipes perspiration from his face with the palms of both hands and rubbed them in turn on the thighs of his gray pants. He was inches shorter than Meyers, and 20 pounds are more lighter, but his bare shoulders bulged powerfully, a little fat softened the lines of his belly without concealing the existence of an underlying layer of solid muscle. He moved with a heavy patting gait, like a large carnivore whose natural grace has revealed only atop speed. Meyers watched him resentfully. Why couldn't I have made it to one of the other emergency rockets he asked himself? Imagine a bunch of crazy savages that say even landing here is a crime. He supposed that Taranto would have pointed to the sizable city where they were held if he had heard the Ahsokans called savages. Meyers thought the trouble with Taranto was that he was too physical. Too much of a dumb flunky, he spoiled Meyers' efforts to talk them out of trouble. I had a better break coming, he thought. He wished he had been in a rocket with one of the ship's officers who might have known about Sasoka. They would have gone into an orbit about the planet star and put out a call for help to the nearest Terran base or ship. As it was, they might be given up for loss even if the other rockets were picked up. The course they had been on before the explosion had been designed to pass the system by a good margin. Taranto, he recalled, had thought them lucky to have picked up the planet on a little escape ship's instruments. Taranto, decided Meyers, thought he was a hot pilot because he had been a few years in space. He had not looked so good bending the rocket across that ridge of rock out in the desert. They should have taken a chance on coming down in the city here. They had just about straightened themselves out after that landing when they had seen the party of Sasokans on the way. It had not taken them long to reach the wreck. They could even speak Terran. And no pigeon Terran either. Then it turned out they did not like spacers of any race landing without permission. There had been a war with the next star system. And the law is now so there should be only one alien of any race permitted to reside in Sasoka except for brief visits by licensed spaceships. What's the matter with our government, muttered Meyers? What? Asked Taranto, turning from one of the windows. I said, what's the matter with the Terran government? Why don't they pitch a couple of bombs down here and show these skinny nuts who's running the galaxy? Who are they to call us aliens? Taranto turned again to the 18 inch square window. Set like the other three in the center of its walls at the level of his shoulders. They're posting their sentries on the city wall for the night, the things should be flying in here anytime now. If it comes said Meyers grumbly, something will go wrong with that too. The other spat out the window that faced the main part of the Sasokan city, then padded to the one opposite. Strange patterns of stars gleamed already in the sky over the desert. The air that blew against his damp face was a trifle cooler. Should I tell the slob about that, he wondered? Nah, he tried to breathe it all. Let him sweat as long as he listens for the Sasokans. Meyers had left his bench to crouch over the trap door. There was no reason to expect their jailers, but the Sasokans had a habit of popping up at all times. The evening meal was usually brought well after dark, however. Do you think we'll really get here again? Asked Meyers. What if they spot it? Taranto grunted. He was watching something he thought was one of the flying insects that thickened the Sasokan twilight. Seconds later, he ducked away from the window as a pencil sized thing with two pairs of flailing wings darted through the opening. It whirled about the dim cell. Meyers flapped his hands about his head. The third time around, the insect passed within Taranto's reach, and he batted it out of the air with a feline sweep of his left hand. It fell against the base of the wall and twitched for a few minutes. Meyers squinted at him, examining the slightly flattened nose and the meaty cheeks that gave Taranto a deceptively plump look. You're quick, alright, he admitted. They used to say in the ship that you were a boxer. What made you a spacer? Two shorts of Taranto leconically. Five eight. And I grew into a light heavy. What did that have to do with it? I did alright for a while. When I could get in on them, they'd go down and stay down. Then they learned to stick and run on me. It was either grow a longer arm or quit. Maybe you should have quit sooner, said Meyers for no good reason except that he resented Taranto and blamed him for their predicament. Why should I ask Taranto with a cold stare? It was good money. By having my eyebrows fixed, I got a nice nest decked back on Terra. Nothing really shows on me except the habit of a short haircut. Meyers ran his fingers through his own on Kim Ter. What was that for, he asked. Oh, it don't wave in the air so much when you stop a jab. Looks better to the judges. Meyers grunted. He'd like to believe it doesn't show on him, he thought. Suddenly he bent down to place an ear against the trap door. A petulant grimace twisted his features. They're on the ladder, he whispered. Wouldn't you know? He straightened up and walked softly back to his bench. Taranto remained at the window. It was a perfectly natural place for him to be, he decided. A few moments later, the trap door creaked up, letting yellow light burst into the cell. It came from a clumsy electric lantern in the grip of the first soak-in and climbed into the chamber. Two others followed, suggestively fingering pistols that would have been considered crude on Terra two centuries earlier. The hole with the light was typical of his race. A tall, cadaverous humanoid with pale greenish gray skin made up of tiny scales. His nose was flatter than that of a Terran ape and his chin consisted mostly of a hanging fold of scaly skin. His ears were set very low on a narrow pointed skull. Occasionally they made small motions as if to fold in upon themselves. The Sasokans were clad in garments not unlike loose, sleeveless pajamas over which they wore leather harness for their weapons. The leader's suit was red, the other two wore a dull brown. It's all satisfactory. Asked the one in charge staring about the cell with large black eyes. Alright, said Taranto stonely. He thought that a Sasokan would never have answered that way. They were a vein of their extraordinary linguistic ability and commonly spoke three or four alien tongues. Only an unfortunate inability to control excessive sibilants marred their Terran. Taranto felt like wiping his face but realized that it was only sweat. The Sasokan prowled around the room, bringing each of the simple furnishings with a flickering glance. He took note of the food left in the copper pot. He checked the level of water in the big jar. He found the dead insect which he sniffed and slipped into a pouch at his belt. Then he passed Taranto, the latter item in measuring fashion. The Sasokan halted out of reach. You have been warned to obey all orders here, he said. Staring between the two Terrans. It's a trouble now, demanded Myers, when it became apparent that the poker face Taranto intended to say nothing. There was a question by the Terran. We allow on the world. How can he know of your complaints? He was told only of your sentence. We told you there would be protests from our government, said Myers. All we did was land on your planet in an emergency. We're only too willing to leave. You have no right to keep us locked up in these conditions. It is a violation of our law. So the Sasokan imperturbably. You go automatically to jail. We permit only one of every sky people to live here. Who could tell yours that you complain of this place? Listen. You better be careful of us Terrans, blessed Myers. We have ways. Shut up, said Taranto without raising his voice. He had inched forward, but stopped now as the two guards of the trapdoor gave him their attention. The Sasokan with the lantern also turned to him. Taranto looked over the latter's shoulder. The window was black. The twilight of Sasoka was brief. Myers had flushed and was scowling at him without thrust lower lip. But Taranto's icy order had spilled the wind from his sails. Perhaps you have had too much water, suggested the Sasokan, regarding Taranto with interest. You have done something. It is best to tell me. Taranto returned the stare. He wondered why all the Sasokans he had seen, though rather fragile and billed, wasted. They looked at him as if a couple of solid hooks to the body would find a soft target. It was unlikely that the Sasokan could read the facial expression of an alien Terran. It was probably some tenseness in Taranto's stance that caused the native to step back. The Terran strained his ears to pick up any unusual noise outside the window during the pause. He heard nothing except the word of night insects. Their jailer paced once more around the cell, and Taranto cursed himself for arousing suspicion. Perhaps you hoped it was only annoyance. But what could I do, he asked himself. Let Myers spill it? In the inn with Taranto answering in mono syllables, and Myers intimidated into an unnatural reserve, the Sasokans retired. The darkness closed in upon the Terrans as they listened to the creaking of the ladder below the trapdoor. Give them time, advised Taranto, hearing Myers move toward the exit. They waited in the silent dark until Myers could stand it no longer. They won't come back, he whispered. I'm sure, said Taranto shortly, get your ear to the wood. He felt his way to the window that faced away from the city. After the heat of the day, the air blowing in was almost cold, and he considered putting on his shirt. The realization that he would have to scrabble around the pile of straw for it gave him pause. His next thought was that he might come up with the wrong shirt, and that discouraged him completely. It was nearly half an hour later when he suspected Myers of dozing on the trapdoor. He backed away and hissed to attract Myers' attention. Did it come? whispered the other. I think so, answered Taranto. A tiny hum drifted through the window into the opening timidly edged a small hovering shape. Okay, said Taranto in a low voice, even though he knew the room was being scanned by an infrared detector. The shape blossomed out with a midget light. Enough of the glow was reflected from the adobe walls to reveal that a miniature flying mechanism, the size of a man's head, had landed on the window ledge. After a moment, its rotors ceased their worrying. Taranto jabbed backward with an elbow as he heard Myers creep up behind him. Listen at the door, dammit! he snarled. All we need is to get caught at this and we'll be here till they turn out the sun. Taranto piped a tiny voice from the machine. Are you ready, Taranto? Go ahead. Two pills coming out of the hold. The voice was clear enough in the stillness of the Sasoken Knight. A hatch in the slid back. Two capsules spilled out on the window ledge. Taranto scooped them up. You each take one with water and strike the voice. Better wait till just before dawn. You told me they bring your food an hour later. That's right, whispered Taranto. That will give this stuff time to act. For all they can tell you will both be deader than a burned out meteorite. Then what? So they will follow their normal custom with the dead. Take you out to the desert to mummify. This thing will hover overhead to spot the location. Did they just... leave us? Yes. As far as anybody has ever been able to find out. I talked to the Capellin next door in the foreign quarter here and he said they might not leave you in one of their own burial grounds. Otherwise I would hate to take the chance of having this gadget seen in the daylight. Alright, so we're out in the desert, said Taranto. How does this ship you arrange for pick us up? We'll still be out for the count. I plan to tell them where to touch down. I can talk louder by radio, you know, that I can to you now. They will grab your bodies and scramble for space. Against the sunset they may not even be seen from the city. If they are, I never heard of them. Who are they, asked Taranto. Some bunch hired for the job by the DIR's department in 99. Just as well not to ask where they came from or what their usual line is. I ain't got any questions at all if they get us out of here, said Taranto. He watched as the hatch closed itself from the tiny light blinked out. The rotors began to spin and two minutes later they were alone. Come and get yours, said the spacer. He reached out with his empty hand to guide Myers to him then very carefully delivered one of the capsules to the other. We're supposed to swallow that big lump, whispered Myers. Just don't lose it, admonished Taranto. He relayed the instructions as precisely as he could. One thing more he concluded. You stay awake to make sure I stay awake until it's time to take the stuff. We could take watches, suggested Myers. I could, said Taranto bluntly. But I'm not sure about you. In the second place, I ain't going to have you sleep while I don't. We're going to play this as safe as possible. Myers grumbled something inaudibly. In the darkness, a sardonic smile twisted Taranto's lips. If you know how he advised, pray we're going to our funeral in the morning. End of Chapter 3 D99 by HB5 Chapter 4 Numbervox recording is in public domain. Westerville set out his little desk in the corner, doodling out possible ways and means of breaking out of his cell 30 fathoms or so underwater. From time to time, Beryl or Simonetta offered a suggestion. He knew that everyone in the office was probably engaged in the same puzzle. Smith believed in general brainstorming and getting a project started, since no one could tell where a good idea might not originate. If I ever get into space, Willy muttered, he will never be to a planet as wet as Trident. Whatever made this heiress think he was a pearl diver. Is that what he was after? Asked Beryl. No, I just made that up. He glanced over at Simonetta who winked and continued with a letter she was transcribing. An earphone reproduced Smith's dictation from his tape. As she listened, she edited mentally and spoke into the microphone of her typing machine, which transcribed her words as type. Westerville realized that it was more difficult than it seemed to do the job so smoothly. He had noticed Beryl rewriting letters two or three times, which was more likely than the boss to set down his thoughts in a logical order. I've heard so many wild ideas in this office, said Beryl, that I simply don't know where to start. How do they decide on a good way? They guess just the way we've been doing. They're better guessers than we are from experience. It's just a matter of judgment, I suppose, Beryl admitted. They make their share of mistakes, Simonetta put in. Yeah, I read an old report on a great one, said Westerville. Every year of the time, they were shipping ships to three spacers jailed out around Mazar. Simonetta stopped talking her letter and the girls gave Willy their attention. It seems, he continued, that an exploring ship landed on a planet of that star and found a kind of civilization they hadn't bargained for. The natives breed there with a high chlorine content, so when they grabbed three of the crew for hostages, the ship had to keep supplying fresh tanks of oxygen. How long could they keep that up? Ask Beryl. Not indefinitely, anyway. They weren't recovering any carbon dioxide for processing the way they would in the ship. The captain figured he'd better lift an orbit while he tried to negotiate. Meanwhile, he sent to the department for help and they came up with a poor guess. What? They got the captain to disguise some spacesuit rockets as oxygen tanks and send them down by the auxiliary rocket they were using to make deliveries and keep contact. The idea was that the prisoners would fly themselves over the walls like angels. The rocket would snatch them up and they'd all filter the green-white light of Mazar from their lenses forever. And why didn't it work? said Westervelt. It worked beautifully. The only trouble was that when they got these three guys aboard and were picking up stellar speed, they found that the Mazarians had pulled a sleight of hand. They'd stuck three of their own into the Terran spacesuits. Pretty cramped but able to move and sent them to spy out the ship. Well, the captain took one look and realized it was all over. He couldn't supply the Mazarians with enough chlorine to keep them alive until they could be sent back. He just kept going. But the men they left behind exclaimed Beryl. What happened to them? Westervelt shrugged. They never exactly found out. Beryl, horrified, turned to Simonetta who stared reflectively at the wall. For all we know, said the dark girl, they were dead already. It was about even, said Westervelt. The Mazarians never heard exactly what happened to theirs either. There was a period of silence while they considered that angle. Simonetta finally said, Why don't you tell her about the time they gave that space or the hormone treatment for a disguise? Oh, you tell it, said Westervelt, trapped. You know it better than I do. That one, began Simonetta, happened on a world where there's a colony from Terra that isn't much talked about. It's a sort of Amazon culture and they don't allow men. They were set to execute this fella who smuggled himself in for a lark when the department started shipping him drugs that changed his appearance. Westervelt admired Beryl's wide-eyed intentness. Finally, Simonetta continued, his appearance changed so much that he could dress up and pass for a woman anywhere. He just walked out when the next scheduled spaceship landed and was halfway back to Terra before they finished searching the woods for him. It made trouble though. What happened, breathed Beryl. They never quite succeeded in changing him back. His wife wound up divorcing him for infidelity when he gave birth to twins. Beryl straightened up abruptly. Oh, you come on now. Westervelt reminded himself that the blush must have resulted less from the joke than from having been taken in. They were still laughing when a buzzer sounded at Beryl's desk phone. She flipped the switch, listened for a moment, then rose with a toss of her blonde head at Westervelt. Mr. Parrish wants me to help him research in the dead files, she said. I bet he won't try that kind of gag on me. No, muttered Westervelt as she strode out. He has some all his own. He looked up to find Simonetta watching him with a grin. She shook her head ruefully as Westervelt grew a flush to match Beryl's. Willie, Willie, she said sadly, you aren't letting that bottle blonde bother you. I didn't think you were that kind of boy. Westervelt grinned back at some cost. Is there another kind? he asked. After all sigh, she's only been around a few weeks. It's the novelty. I'll get used to her. Sure you will, said Simonetta. She returned to her letters and Westervelt hunched over his desk to brood. He wondered what Parrish and Beryl were up to in the file room. He could think of no innocent reason to wander in on business of his own. Perhaps he reflected. He did not really want to. He wanted to hear something he would regret. He passed some time without directing a single thought to the problems of the department. Then the door beyond Simonetta opened and Smith strolled out. He carried a pad as if he too had been doodling. Well, Willie, he said cheerfully. What are we going to do about this Harris fellow? All I can think of, Mr. Smith, is to offer to trade them a few people we could do without, said Westervelt. Smith grinned. He seemed to be willing to make up a little list. Some who never would be missed, eh? And let's head the page with people who take a look. He potted about for a few moments before winding up seated on a corner of the unoccupied secretarial desk. I was actually thinking of skin divers, he confided. Then I realized that if it takes a 20-foot monster to wander the undersea wilds of Trident without being intimidated, maybe those waters wouldn't be too safe for a Tarrant swimmer. Unless I could get one of the monsters for a guy, suggested Westervelt. The three of them pondered that possibility. I can see it now, said Simonetta. My name's Swishy, me good guide. Pearl? Not allowed here. We know steel from other fish. They laughed. And Smith demanded to know how one thought and pigeon talked. They discussed the probability of fraud in the reports that Smith had received, and concluded reluctantly that whether or not some trick might be involved, there was bound to be some truth in the story. I suppose we'll have to use this fishy network to locate him, said Smith at last. It would take too long to ship out parts of a small sub to be assembled on Trident. The whole thing makes me wonder if I'll ever eat another seafood dinner. Maybe somebody else will think of something, said Westervelt, partly to conceal the fact that he himself would come up with nothing. Tell you what, said Smith, nodding. Suppose you go along and see how Bob Leibman is making out. While I sign these letters, you might check at the calm room sometime too in case anything else in the case comes in. Westervelt agreed, made sure he had something in his pocket to write upon should the need arise, and left. A few minutes later he reached the end of the corridor, having cocked an ear at the door of the old file office as he passed the narrow giggling at summer mark by parish. He unclenched his teeth and knocked on Leibman's door. He waited a minute and tried again, but there was still no answer. He hesitated, wondering what would happen should he walk in and find that Leibman was physically present, but not in a mood to recognize anyone else's existence. Slowly, he walked back to the washroom on the opposite side of the hall. Washing his hands with deliberation, Westervelt decided that it might be best to get Leibman on the phone. He could not, in fact, understand why inside phone calls were not more popular in the office. He's supposed that the face-to-face habit had grown up among the staff, probably reflecting Smith's preference for getting everyone personally involved in everything. There might even be a deeper cause. They were so often in contact with distant places by the tenuous beaming of interstellar signals that there must be a certain reassurance and a sense of security in having within physical reach the person to whom one was speaking. I'll have to watch for that if I stay here long enough, Westervelt told himself. You don't have to be a prize-friar to get punchy, I guess. He examined himself critically in the mirror over the sink, thinking that he could do with the need of her parents. A coin in the slot of a dispenser on the wall bought him a disposable paper comb with which he smoothed down his dark hair. I knew the haircut almost as bad as Caster P, he thought. I wonder if that really stands for Pollux. What a thing for parents to do. On the other hand, from people that came up with one like him, you'd expect almost anything. No one came in while he was in the washroom, much as he would have welcomed an excuse for conversation. He dawdled his way through the door into the corridor, not liking the thought of inflicting his presence upon barrel and perish. That meant he would have to walk back as far as the spare conference room to find a phone. Of course, there's the lab, he muttered. That was only a few steps away, and he could hardly do much damage between the door and the phone. Reaching the end of the corridor once more, he decided to make one last try at Leidman's door. Again, there was no reply to his knock, so he turned away to the laboratory door and waited. He was faced by a vista of tables, workbenches with power tools, and diverse assemblies of testing apparatus. Most of the latter, dusty and presenting the appearance of goldbergs, knocked together for temporary use, and then shoved aside until someone might need a part from one of them. By far the greater space, however, was occupied by shelves and crates and stacks of small cartons, or loosely wrapped packages in which various gadgets seemed to be stored after plans of them had been transmitted to the field. The room was then moved continually to the ceiling. Racks of instruments in relatively recent use or consideration stood here and there among the tables and workbenches. To Westervelt's right, near the far wall behind which lay the communications room, he caught sight of a prowling figure. He recognized Leidman's broad shoulders and hesitated. The X-Baser had paused to examine a gadget lying on one of the tables. From Westervelt's position, it appeared to be a wristwatch, or something similar. Leidman picked it up and turned toward a part of the wall to get a partition of brick. He raised the watch to eye level, as if aiming. A thin pencil of white flame leaped from the instrument to spatter sparks against the already scarred and stained steel. Sucked up by the air conditioning, the small puff of smoke disappeared so quickly that Westervelt realized that the scorched odor was entirely in his imagination. Leidman replaced the instrument casually before strolling over to another table. He inspected an open pack of cigarettes with a grim smile, as if never to grub one of those, just on general principles. Leidman went on to a small cylinder, somewhat larger than an old-fashioned battery flashlight. Something clicked under his finger, and from one end of the cylinder emerged the folding blades of a portable fan. The X-Baser pressed a second switch position to start them spinning. He turned the fan to blow across his face as if to check its cooling power, then held the thing at arm's length as he thumbed the switch to a third position. A low humming sound reached Westervelt. At the same time, Leidman's presence, unexpected as it was, had upset him, he thought. He decided that he must be getting a dizzy spell of some sort. Then he became concerned lest he turn nauseous. The final stage, hardly a minute after Leidman had last moved the switch, found Westervelt tensing as a wave of sheer panic swept over him. He stepped back toward the door, noticing dizzily that Leidman wore a strange expression too. Some of the ultrasonic effect were reflected from the walls to the X-Baser. Another part insisted upon leaving this scene as hastily as possible. He got himself into the corridor again, actually panting as he eased the door closed behind him. He started to walk, finding his knees a trifle loose. Passing the washroom, he hesitated, but he decided that he could make it to the conference room. Once there, however, he slipped inside and sat down to recover. What does it take to have a mind like that? He whispered to himself. I think someday I ought to look for a job with reasonably normal people. A few minutes of peace and quiet refreshed him. He returned to the main office, just as Smith was surrendering a stack of signed letters to Simonetta Diorio. They looked around as he entered. Well, Willie, did he have anything going? asked Smith. He was kind of busy, said Westervelt. What did he seem to have in mind? Smith started to reach for Simonetta's phone switch. He, that is, I didn't ask him. Busy in the lab. Oh, said Smith. He peered at Westervelt's expression and added, then perhaps we'd better not disturb him. It might spoil any ideas he's putting together. Westervelt managed a grunt of his sense as he turned to walk back to his desk. Whatever he's putting together, he thought, I'd rather stay out of the way. He hunched over his desk, staring unseemly at the notes he had scribbled earlier. He was vaguely conscious of the secession of talk in the background, but he did not notice Simonetta's approach until the girl stood beside him. What happened, Willie? She asked, you look as if he threw you out. No, not deliberately anyhow, said Westervelt. At least, I don't think he knew I was even there. Although, how can you tell if he doesn't want to let on? He told her what had happened in the laboratory. She nodded thoughtfully. I suppose it has its uses, said Westervelt. I hate to think of the way he plays around with things in there. Wasn't there a time when someone killed himself in that lab? Simonetta. She hugged herself as if feeling a sudden chill. Her large, soft eyes, serious. Westervelt realized that she was actually a very beautiful girl, much more so than Beryl. And he wondered why he felt so differently about them. Simonetta seemed too nice to fit the ideas he got concerning Beryl. Something told him that his thinking was mixed up. I guess he'd just grow out of that, he reflected silently. Maybe they're the same under the skin. End of Chapter 4 D99 Chapter 5 This LibriVox recording is in public domain. When Beryl walked in, Westervelt was at one of the tall windows with Simonetta, dialing filter combinations to make the most of the setting sun. They had the edge of it showing as a deep crimson ball beside another building in the vicinity. What are you two doping out? Asked the blonde. Some disappearing trick? Simonetta laughed as Westervelt shoved the dial setting to afternoon normal. It's an idea, he said, scowling at Beryl. For underwater, she demanded mockingly. Ever hear of a squid? retorted Westervelt. They hide themselves underwater. Maybe a cloud of dye would be as good as a filter. Willie, that is an idea, said Simonetta. You ought to tell Mr. Smith. Westervelt looked at her sourly. Now Beryl knew that they'd really been wasting time and had a point to score against him in their next exchange. Oh well, I can't hold a thing like that against Si, he thought. I can think of people who'd be on the way to Smitty already, calling it their own idea. The ladylight collapsed into her chair and crossed her legs. She dug into her purse for cigarettes and requested a light. Why don't you buy a bram of the lighter in the box? asked Westervelt. Nevertheless, he walked over to the switchboard cubicle for the office desk lighter that had been appropriated by Pauline. Returning with it after a moment, he lit Beryl's cigarette and inquired, Well, what did you and Parrish dig up? I don't know, she sighed. Leaning back. But boy, did we dig. Yeah, I thought I heard the shovel clink once, but we didn't get heard through the door of the dead file office. Beryl, concerned with her own complaints, ignored him. We must have looked up 30 or 40 cases, she went on. I never even heard of most of those places on the newscast. Did he find anything that gave him an idea? asked Simonetta. Not a thing. There seemed to be some real crazy spots in the records, but nobody had forgotten jail at the bottom of an ocean. You'd think it would have happened sometimes, said Simonetta thoughtfully. I suppose, suggested Westervelt, who was under water. They didn't live long enough to be one of our cases. On a place like Trident, they usually wouldn't have any trouble. They'd stay on land, and any local life would stay on the sea. It took a nut like Harris to go poking around where he wasn't wanted. That's what Mr. Parrish hinted, said Beryl. All I know is, that it sounds like a story out of a laughing academy. They shouldn't allow them to get into places like that. Then we'd all be looking for work, said Westervelt. Don't complain, Beryl. Maybe it will happen to you someday. He's been delivered and turned to face her desk. Not me, she declared. I'm staying on Tara, even if they do offer me a field trip as a sort of vacation. Ah, he's already started that line on her, thought Westervelt. I wonder if there's anything in the files on how to spring a secretary from a penthouse. Lydman and Parrish walked in. The latter pausing to exchange remarks with Pauline, the switchboard operator. A moment later, Smith opened his door, as if expecting someone. He must have phoned them for a change, Westervelt realized. Oh, there you are, Willie, said the chief. I suppose you might as well sit in on this, too. We might need something and, meanwhile, you can be picking up a tip or two. Westervelt rose and followed the others into Smith's office, where he took a chair by the window. The others clustered around the chief's desk, a vast plateau of silvery plastic strewn with a hodgepodge of paper and tapes. The office itself was like a small museum. The walls were lined with photographs, mostly of poor quality, but showing interesting devices that had been used in various department cases. The ones in which the color was better usually showed Smith in company with two or three men wearing space uniforms and self-conscious looks. Sometimes, a more assured individual was shown in the act of presenting some sort of memento or letter of appreciation to Smith. Lightman and Parrish also appeared in several of the pictures. The record of our best cases, thought Westervelt. The bad ones are buried in the files. Standing along the walls or on little tables and bases of their own were a good many models of spaceships, planetary systems, and non-humanoid beings. A few of the latter statues were enough to have made Barrel declare she was perfectly happy to stay out of Smith's office and be someone else's secretary. One model, which Westervelt secretly longed to examine at Leisure, showed an entire city with its surrounding landscape on a distant planet. Westervelt tore his attention from the mementos and turned toward the group as Smith settled himself behind the desk. This is no longer even approximately funny, so the department head. I've had a few calls put through. Do you know how little we're going to have to work with? Gather that it is not very much, said Parish calmly. There are less than 50 Terrans on that whole planet, declared Smith, running the fingers of one hand through his already untidy hair. The nearest colony or friendly spaceport from which we could have equipment sent in is 20 odd light years away. Well, that could be done, said Leidman mildly. Oh, of course it could be done, admitted Smith. But how long do we have to fool around? We don't know under what conditions Harris is being held. Parish leaned forward to rest his elbows on Smith's desk. We can deduce some of them pretty well, he suggested. In the first place, if he got out several messages, which we'll have to assume he did, they must have found some means of providing him with air. He could have lived a while in the air in the submarine he built, said Leidman. Yes, but in that case he would have used its radio for communication. We have to assume that they pride him out somehow, no? The others nodded. He wouldn't last too long in a space suit even if they pumped in air under pressure, said Leidman judiciously. So they must have built some kind of structure to house him. If only a big tank, said Parish. He felt stirred, then closed his mouth rather than interrupt. Smith, however, had seen the motion and looked up. Speak up, Willie, he invited. It won't sound any sillier than anything else that's been said in this room. I was wondering about these Tridentians, said Westerville. Does anybody know how they live? Do they have cities built on the sea bottom? If they have waterjet vehicles, they certainly had the technical Smith stopped as he saw Parish lean back and realize toward the ceiling. I don't know why that didn't occur to me sooner, grown Parish. A hundred to one, they have a nomadic setup. It would be typical with an environment like that. This is worse than we thought. You mean, muttered Smith after a few moments of silence. How can we get a direction fix on a thought? Something like that, said Parish. I suppose they have bases where they keep permanent manufacturing facilities. Probably set up at points where they have access to minerals unless they know how to extract what they need from the water itself. Getting hard about that, agreed Smith. I'll have to send out a few more questions. Of course, they'll take the attitude that I should be doing something instead of asking about irrelevant subjects. We're used to that, smiled Parish, showing his beautiful teeth. Westerville wondered how broadly he would smile if it were his own responsibility. He had an idea that Parish might be rather less than half as charming if he were running the operation and not getting much help from the others in solving the problem. He had to admit, however, that the man had a knack for spotting alien culture patterns. When Parish left the cities, it was merely because he had half-pictured some Terran-style dome underwater and knew that that image was unlikely. Anyway, Parish was going on, we should probably think of them as being free as birds to go where they like. Even before they developed machines, they probably migrated about their world by swimming. I gather that these other... fish, I suppose we'll have to call them. Thinking fish, murmured Smith sadly. He ran his hand through his hair again. I suppose those things still do, like the other types we still haven't heard of, which would fill the place of Terran animals. So then, we'll have to look for temporary locations, and think in terms of a fast raid rather than a careful penetration. If we could find them, there must be some way we could armor a few spacesuits against pressure and drop down on them, said Leibman. I think I can dig up a weapon or two that will work underwater in a way these clams never thought of. Maybe we could do better to have Swishy if the thinking fish hypnotized them into bringing Harris back, said Westerville. They looked at him thoughtfully, and he was horrified to see his joke being taken seriously. He squirmed in his chair by the window wishing he had kept his mouth shut. I wonder, muse Smith, if they can actually exchange thoughts. They might have natural defenses, said Parrish tentatively. What could we bribe a fish with, asked Leibman, but hopefully rather than derisively. Smith made another note, then drummed his fingers on his desktop. The four of them set in silence. Westerville hoped that the others were engaged in more productive thoughts than his own. It was nice to have their attention and get the reputation of a bright young man who came up with suggestions. But when they decided upon some reasonable course of action, they might remember him for making a foolish remark. Willie, said Smith, coming to a decision, circulate around and asked the others if they can stick it out a couple of hours tonight. Maybe there's time to pry some useful information out of Trident, and at least get something started before we close down. If I know some guy out in space is working on it, I can sleep anyway. Westerville left his place by the window and went into the outer office. He told Simonetta in barrel. The latter acted less than thrilled. Westerville wondered jealously what kind of date she had scheduled for the evening. He stopped at the window of the switchboard cubby hole. Oh, it's you, Willie, exclaimed Pauline. Yeah, you can turn on the projector again, he grinned. What is it, a love movie? Pauline edged a small tape projector out from under the side of her board. It's homework, if you have to know, she told him. That's right, you still go to college, Westerville recalled. Why don't you switch to alien psychology? Then you could qualify for office manager around here. When do we have alien visitors here? Once in a ringed moon. Who was to say which of the aliens, said Westerville? There are days when I think I could feel more understanding to something with 12 tentacles and a tank of chlorine than to a lot of the mentalities to get loose right in this office. There's a crash program on for the evening, by the way. And Smitty wants the staff to hang on a while. A look of dismay flashed over Pauline's youthful features. I know, you have class tonight, Westerville deduced. Chuck it all, stay in the file room with Mr. Parrish and you learn twice as much. Pauline offered to throw the projector at him, but laughed. Westerville told her that no one would miss her if she connected a few of the main office phones to outside lines, and hooked up the communications room with Smith's desk. He left her wondering if she ought to stay anyhow and headed for the hall. Halfway along to the communications room, he heard the elevator doors open and close. He stopped and looked back. Around the corner strolled one of the TV men, Joe Rosencrantz. Westerville looked at his watch and realized that it was a shift change for the communications personnel who kept touch with the universe 24 hours a day in case someone somewhere makes a dumb mistake like Harris, thought Westerville. They overdue it a little, I think. I suppose it's the typical pride and joy of Taren technical culture to signal halfway across the galaxy to fix something that might have been cured beforehand when Harris was a little boy. I wonder what the psychologists should have done about me to keep me out of a place like this. Hello, Willie, said Rosencrantz, catching up. Going to the calm room? Westerville admitted as much and gave the operator a brief outline of the afternoon's developments. Rosencrantz remained unperturbed. Hope they don't get intoxicated with ingenuity and insist on sending messages all over. He grunted. I was looking forward to a quiet night shift. They went in to tell Colburn who took it well. He points it out to Westerville that he would in no case have been concerned with the overtime operation. When he was relieved, he was relieved. Period. I forget this crazy place the men at the elevator door were running, having handed over to Rosencrantz his log and a few unofficial comments about traffic he had heard during recent hours. There are some who wait till they hit the street, but I believe in a clean cut. I walk in, push main floor, and everything else goes blank. He went out the door refusing to dignify their jeers by any defense and made for the elevators. By the time he reached the corner of the hall he had slipped into his top coat. He pushed the button to call the elevator. When it arrived, Colburn stepped inside and rode down to the 95th floor. He switched to a public express elevator which picked up several other people before becoming an express at the 75th floor. Lived through it again he muttered to a man next to him as they reached the main floor. He joined the growing stream of office workers flowing through the lobby of the building, taking for granted the kaleidoscope play of decorative lights on the translucent ceiling. He noticed them when they suddenly went out. There was first silence, then a babble of voices until small emergency lights went on. Someone spoke of a fuse blowing. Colburn looked outside and saw no street lights or illuminated signs. His first thought was power for his setup stairs. No, that's special, he told himself. But I'd better call and see if the elevators are working. End of Chapter 5 D99 by HB5 Chapter 6 This LibriVox recording is in public domain. For a jail cell the chamber was quite commodious. The walls were of bare stone like most of the buildings in Greenhaven which Maria Ringstadt had visited during her short period of sightseeing. She thought that it must have entailed a great deal of extra labor to provide such large rooms in a stone building especially when the materials had to be quarried by relatively primitive means. On Greenhaven everything had evidently been done the hard way. She had heard about that facet of the Greenie character before leaving the ship and she now wished that she had listened more carefully. It was difficult to picture in her mind just how far away that spaceship was by this time. That had been the worst, the feeling of having been abandoned. Meanwhile, having turned up her nose at the sewing chores they had assigned to her but having nothing else to occupy her she sat on the edge of the austere wooden shelf that doubled as a bed and a bench. The Greenie guard standing in the doorway looked as if he had expected to find the sewing done. Can't you understand honey? said Maria lightly. You can cart that basket of rags away. I have no intention of sticking my fingers with those crude needles you people use. The Greenie was a short sturdy young man uniformed in the drabbest of done-colored clothing. A shirt with a high tight collar starched like cardboard held his chin at a dignified elevation. It also seemed to keep his eyes wide open, Maria thought, unless that was his naturally naive expression. Did anyone ever tell you those hats would make good spatoons? she asked. It is forbidden to speak vainly of any correction official, said the young man stiffly. Correction official echoed Maria. Look honey, don't kid with me. I bet you're just a janitor here. If I thought you were a real official who might be cuddled into letting me out of this cage I'd be a lot more friendly. She gave him an amiable grin. It was not returned. The Greenie stood gripping the thick edge of the blank wooden door until his knuckles whitened. He looked like a man who had just discovered a worm in his apple. Half a worm in fact. Now I may be pushing 35 said Maria but I know I don't look that bad. Actually alongside your Greenie girls you've backed up pretty well don't you think? For one thing I'm shorter than you are. For another I fill out my clothes and don't look like a skinny old horse. You are not dressed as an honest woman. The guard got out. Setting on the edge of the wooden bunk Maria crossed her knees and thought he would choke. She tugged slightly at the short skirt that had attracted so many lowering stairs when she had strolled down the main street of First Haven. She was used to being among men but this poor soul was outside her experience. Maria Ringstab was aware of both her visual shortcomings and attractions. After a month here her hair was beginning to grow in darker and less all burn. She was a trifle solid for her 5 feet 4 but that came of having a durable frame. Her face was squarish with a determined nose and her hazel eyes looked green in some lights. On the other hand she had a nice smile and she had spent much time in places where few women went. She was used to being popular with the opposite sex even in face of competition for members of her own. In the greeny women with their voluminous drab dresses and hang dog expressions devoid of the least makeup she saw little competition. Really she said, no one else would think of me as a criminal. I just tried to buy a picture in that little shop then the heavens fell in on me. The heavens do not fall on Green Haven said the guard firmly. Well anyway some very sour characters trumped up all sorts of charges against me and here I am the attempt is equal to the deed. Maria shook her head inside she stood up and took a few steps toward him. You must keep your place ordered the young man with an undercurrent of panic in his tone. I have not come to debate justice with you. You have sinned and you have been sentenced. I bet he'd faint if I threw my arms around him thought Maria. But what was the sin honey? she demanded. You'd think I'd written a bad article about Green Haven for my syndicate. Honestly I didn't even have time to see the place. The young man released the edge of the door but still looked worried. Green Haven was founded by colonists who sought liberty and were willing to create a haven for it by the sweat of their brows, he informed her. Conditions were inhospitable. There were plagues to test their faith an ungainly beast to test their courage. What has been built here has been built by a great communal struggle and it is not to be hazarded by the sinful attitudes of old Tara. And you should have paid the listed price. But he wouldn't sell me one at that price if I didn't have one. You attempted to bribe him. Well it was just a friendly offer said Maria straightening her skirt. It didn't amount to anything. On the contrary, it amounted to bribery, immorality, and economic subversion. Procedures such as purchases and merchandising must be strictly regulated for the good of the community. We cannot permit chaos to intrude upon the peace of Green Haven. You know honey, she remarked studying him with her head cocked to one side. You talk like a book, a very old book. The guard rolled his eyes toward the hall. He relaxed for the first time in order to lean back and listen to something in the corridor. I must caution you to cease addressing me as honey. He said in a lower voice, I hear the steps of my superior. Maria laughed, a silvery ripple that made the young man grit his teeth. Maybe he's jealous, she suggested. Or bored. What do you fellas have to do anyway except go around handing out cell work and picking it up? The little hands, said the young man, eyeing the untouched sewing with disapproval. Isn't there any excitement? How often does someone try to escape? It is forbidden to escape, said the guard soberly. He looked as if he wished that he himself could escape. Heavy steps halted outside the door of the cell to signal the arrival of the chief warden. The latter turned a severely inquiring stare upon the young man, who hastily stepped aside to admit his chief. Have you been conversing with the prisoner? asked the older man. He was in a very uniform, with, perhaps, a slightly higher collar. His dark-browed features reflected greater age and asceticism. Otherwise, Maria thought ruthfully, there was little to choose between them. He seemed to have a chilling effect upon the guard. Only in the line of duty, sir, the young man responded. The warden spotted the basket of undone work. He frowned. This should have been attended to long ago, he said. What excuse can there be? Maria planted both hands on her hips. She said, In the second, that ridiculous five-year sentence is going to be appealed and canceled as soon as the Terran Council gets things moving. That is at least doubtful, retorted the warden, favoring her with a wintry smile which raised the corners of his mouth an eighth of an inch. Meanwhile, there are methods we can use to enforce obedience. Would you rather I summon some of the women of the staff? I'd rather you'd explain to me what was so awful about trying to buy a picture of the city in that little shop. The tourists to buy, why did they have them? Such nonsensical objects are provided for tourists and others who must from time to time be admitted to Greenhaven. That does not excuse flouting our laws and seeking to cause dissatisfaction through the example of bribery. The city of First Haven has been wrung from the wilderness, but the struggle to complete our building of the colony must not be hindered or subverted. It is necessary. Oh, hell, you talk like a book too, exclaimed Maria. The two men stared at her, silent, wide-eyed, shocked at this open evidence of dementia. The priceless is sacred to you, she snapped, but it's all right to put that junk on sale to clip the tourists, isn't it? Why doesn't that strike you as being immoral? They're no good, but their money is. Is that it? She turned and stalked back to the shelf bed where she sat down and deliberately crossed her legs. You will not be required further, the warden told the young man. See that you spread not the plague by repeating any of this Jezebel's loose talk. The guard left hurriedly. Maria discovered the warden gaping in her knees and violently tossed her head. You never see a leg before, she demanded. Or are all you greening girls bow-legged? Is that why they wear those horrible mother-hubbards? She gave her skirt a malicious twitch, revealing a few more inches of firm thigh. The warden began to turn red. He muttered something that actually sounded closer to a prayer than a curse, and then turned his eyes away. I hope those in authority will yield to the importunities of your depraved fellow who calls himself the Terran Council and sullies the clean air of Greenhaven by his very... I hope they deport you. Oh, honey, could you arrange it?" cried Maria, leaping up and advancing on him. She grabbed him just above the elbows and he broke her hold by sweeping both hands upward and outward. This offered Maria the opportunity to take a double grip under his belt. When he lowered his hands to free himself, she threw both arms about his neck. I knew someone could fix things up, she exclaimed. You're going to let me out of here until they decide what ship to put me on, aren't you? The warden's expression was horror-stricken. With a heavy effort, he got both hands against her and shoved. Maria staggered back all the way to the bunk. The warden apparently not quite sure what he had done looked down at his hands. He turned them palm up. Then, as his gaze met Maria's, made as if to thrust them behind his back. Relax, honey, she said. You were a little high. I don't imagine you have any laws here against shoving a lady on her can, as long as you're careful where you shove. May the Founders protect me from a forward woman. Breathe, the warden. Will you be still and listen to me, Jezebel? Or would you continue ignorance of the news I brought? What news? I'm instructed to inform you that you have an official visitor. Do you wish to see him? Maria shoved herself away from the edge of the bunk and assumed a dignified stance. She tugged her clothing into order. I should be most honored to receive this visitor, she said in her best imitation of greeny formality. I deeply appreciate your announcing his presence. At last. The warden glared at her, finding no words worthy of the state of his blood pressure. He stepped back and slammed the heavy door shut. It muffled somewhat his departing footsteps. I'm out, yipped Maria. She did a little jig, ran to the door to press an ear against it and turned to survey the cell with the fingers of one hand, beating a light tattoo against her lips. She crossed to the bunk. From beneath it she dragged the small overnight bag she had succeeded in obtaining from the ship before it had left for the next planet. She began to go about the room, collecting the few odds and ends she possessed and packing them. She was fingering the bristles of her toothbrush for dampness when she heard returning footsteps. The hell with brushing my hair, she thought. I'll go as is. She threw the toothbrush into the bag, tossed her hairbrush on top and snapped the catch. She considered herself ready. The door opened and the warden ushered another man into the cell. Maria felt a sudden chill. The newcomer was a greeny. She looked over his shoulder, hoping for a glimpse of the Tarrant Council. But there were just the two greenies facing her. The stranger was nearer in age to the young guard than to the warden. On the other hand, the severity of his expression was a challenge to the older man. The uniform was about the same. My name is John Willard, he announced flatly. He reached into an inner pocket to produce a fold of papers. At the edge of one, Maria caught sight of what she guessed to be an official seal. Willard opened the papers and turned to the warden. You identify the prisoner before us as one Maria Ringstad, native of Tarrant. I do, so the warden righteously. You will please sign this statement to that effect. There was silence in the cell as the warden held the document against the door to scribble his signature. Maria watched and growing chagrin. Willard folded the statement of identification, returned it to his pocket, and faced her. Maria Ringstad, he said, I am to inform you that your appeal has been denied. You will accompany me to the corrective farm number five, where I will deliver you to the authorities who will supervise the serving of your sentence. Maria drops her bag. What? You're lying. Let me see those phony papers. This is some sort of Willard letter have the back of his left hand across the face. Maria never saw it until she was falling. She sat down with a thump. Her legs stretched out straight before her. Unbelievably, she watched Willard sign a copy of his order for the warden. The latter examined it with satisfaction before tucking it away. They turned to look down at her and Willard announced that he was ready to leave. He seemed to think that a good way to forestall an argument was to get her moving as quickly as possible. He yanked on one elbow. The warden pulled on the other and Maria headed for the door at a smart trot, wondering how she had risen. My bag, she protested. I have it, said Willard. Turn left for the stairs, said the warden. I'm not going, she yelled. Yes you are, said Willard. Yes you are, echoed the warden. They reached the head of the stairs where the warden was holding his grip. Willard shoved her forward and the two of them descended with a breakneck lack of balance. At the bottom they paused for the warden to catch up. Maria seized the chance to kick Willard in the shin. He turned white, but urged her on as the warden led the way through a barred door into an open courtyard. They crossed the courtyard by fits and starts with Maria expressing her opinion in words she had never before uttered. The meaning of certain of them still eluded her. But Willard seemed to understand the general drift. The warden spoke to a guard ordering him to open the main gate. Willard boosted her through with a knee in the behind. The massive portal swung to with a thud leaving them out in the street. I'll be damned if I go to any prison farm Maria shouted in his ear. I demand to see the Terran Council. This is an outrage. Willard glared at a passing greenie who seemed disposed to look on. He tightened his grip on Maria's arm. The better to tow her 20 feet down the street away from the gate. There he backed her roughly against the blank granite wall. If you don't shut your face he growled between set teeth. I'll really belt you one. Maria gasped in a breath and looked at him. It was easy since he had thrust his face within a few inches of hers. Little droplets of perspiration stood out on his forehead. He looked scared. End of Chapter 6 D99 by HB-5 Chapter 7 This LibraVox recording is in public domain. Westerville was still sitting in the old Rosencrantz in the communications room when Colburn's call came through. He looked over Joe's shoulder as the operator swibbled to face his telephone viewer. How come you remember the number he greeted Colburn? Did the elevator doors close on you? Very funny haha retorted Colburn. Look Joe have you got power? Westerville peered closer thinking that the redhead looked unusually concerned. Rosencrantz seemed not to have noticed. Power he said? Have I got power? I can pull in stations you never heard of. Just on willpower. You you poor slob. You don't even remember if you're on your way home or coming to work. What is it now? I'll tell you what it is shouted Colburn. It's a power failure. They don't even have any lights out on the street. I nearly got trampled to death getting back in the lobby to phone you. Westerville and Rosencrantz looked at each other. Come to think of it Charlie said the operator. The lights did blink a minute ago. I wonder if that was our own power taking over for the whole floor. They saw Colburn turn his head to get into the phone cubicle. I'll go check the meters said Rosencrantz. Watch the space set for me Willy. What what what? Stuttered Westerville groping after him. Charlie he went away. What do I do if a call comes in? Colburn finished dealing with his own problem downstairs and returned his attention to Westerville. He requested a repeat. I said that Joe went around the corner to check the power babbled the youth. What do I do if a space call comes in? He said to watch the set. Oh said Colburn. You see the little red star shaped to the board under the screen. Yeah, yeah it's out Charlie. Well it should be. It's an automatic call indicator set for our code. If it goes on it shows you're getting a call even if you have the screen too dark or the audio too low to notice. So you look for a green one like it on the other side. Yeah I see it. You push the button beside it and our code goes out automatically to acknowledge. Then you push the next button underneath which puts out a repeating signal to stand by. Got that so far? I got it said Westerville. Then what? Then you go scream for Joe at the top of your lungs. That covers everything. You are now a deep space operator. Just don't touch any of those buttons until you get a license. But Charlie. He was saved by the return of Rosencrantz for whom he thankfully vacated space before the phone. Colburn was again engaged in making faces at some other desperate commuter. You were right Charlie said Rosencrantz. We're strictly on our own private power. The whole floor as near as I can tell. I thought they were being fussy when they put it in and they got off at that. How does it look down there? It's a mess said Colburn. You wouldn't believe there were so many people working in our building. No no said Rosencrantz. I mean what's the situation? Is it just this building that's cut off or the whole city or what? You can't believe anything they're saying Colburn told them but they had somebody yapping on the public address system. It seems as the whole section of the city about 50 blocks square cut off. They're talking about a main cable overloading. I can imagine what they're saying said Rosencrantz. Colburn gave a hollow laugh. You think they're the only one stuck? There ain't a single subway belt moving to the suburban heliports. All the local surface monorails are stopped. You should see the way they're packing the ground taxes and the cops won't let any more helicopters come down. They're supposed only to pick up from the roof said Rosencrantz. That isn't where the people are. The people are all down here with me and half of them are trying to get in the booth to tell their wives they won't be home. Well there's a lot of us won't get home tonight but Rosencrantz exchanged glances. The youth shrugged. He'd been planning on staying late anyhow. Tell him to come back up Joe, he suggested. We have food in the locker for visitors and he can clear a table in here to snooze on. Colburn had heard him and was shaking his head. I'd like nothing better Willie, he said but I might as well start walking. It's better on the level than on the stairs. What do you mean stairs? I don't know about the other buildings around here but they regretfully announced that there will be no elevators running above the 70-50 floor in this one. In fact, they only have partial service that high on the building's emergency power generator. Rosencrantz looked worried. Broodingly he fumbled out a box of cigarettes. What do you think Charlie? He asked. I mean, Leibman? That's why I called said Colburn. I think you better check the stairs and tell Smith. If he starts our boy down them the 99 floors will give him something to keep his mind busy. The pressure from outside finally intimidated him into switching off. The last they saw of him on the fading phone screen he was striving desperately to ease himself out of the booth in the face of a bellowing rush of hairy commuters for the phone. Joe sighed, trying to light his smoke from the wrong end of the box. I'm gonna check our elevator Joe, Westervelt said. He left the communications room and trotted up the corridor and around the corner. Through the main doors he caught sight of Pauline peering out her compartment. A thought struck him. He hurried over to her and thrust his head to the opening in her glass partition. Were you still on that line cutie he demanded? What line demanded Pauline indignantly? Oh Willie, does this mean we have to walk down 25 floors tonight? You little, listen. Don't let out a peep about this until we know more. Why not Willie? Do you want to get everybody upset? How can they dream up brilliant ideas while they're worrying about ordering sandwiches and a promise? Pauline reluctantly gave her word not to say anything without consulting him. Westervelt returned to the hall where he pressed the button for the elevator. He waited about three times as long as it usually took to get a car then tried again with the same lack of results. Looking up he discovered that even the red light over the entrance to the stairs was out. That apparently had not been part of the 99th floor system now powered by their own generator. Westervelt took the few steps to the doorway concealing the stairs. There was beautifully reproduced notice on the door informing all persons that this was an emergency exit and that the door would open automatically in case of fire or other emergency. There were detailed directions on how to leave which in simple language meant go downstairs. The door shut, muttered Westervelt, so that proves there isn't any emergency. He tried the handle, it did not budge except for a slight clicking. Feeling slightly uneasy, he leaned over to squint at the crack of the door. He spotted the latch, a sturdy bar and saw that he was moving it. There was, however, another bar which did not move and the door refused to slide open. Of course he breathed. It's made to open automatically. How would they do that? By electricity? What haven't we got plenty of? The damn thing's locked. Somebody designed a beautiful setup. He looked about the empty corridor, jittering indecisively. I could call downstairs before I tell Smitty, he reminded himself. For the sake of having a handy shoulder to cry on, he went all the way back to the communications room to use a phone. He made a gesture of throwing up his hands as Job looked around. Then got Pauline on the phone. See if you can get me the building manager's office, he requested. Don't be surprised if it's busy for a couple of minutes. He was nearer 15 minutes before his call went through. During that time, he learned that Rosencrantz took a serious view of the inconvenience. I guess you heard some of the talk about Bob Leidman, said the operator. Well some was imagination, but a lot of it's true. He spends a long time in a hellhole out among the stars. And if there's anything that might shove him off course, it's the idea that he can't get out. No matter where he is, he has to know he can leave when he feels like it. But if he doesn't know about it, ask Westervelt. How long can you keep it quiet? I bet you can see a blackout from the window. Watch the set, I'll take a look. Ah, now wait a minute, Joe. Westervelt's consternation was diverted by the call that came through at that moment. A perspiring face with ruffled gray hair, which Westervelt could remember having seen occasionally about the lobby downstairs, looking extremely sleek and well groomed, if you're above the 75th, walk down that far. If you're lower, walk down as far as you can, said the men hoarsely. If you can stay put, that's the best thing. Tell me, what power failure, not responsibility of the building management, said the sweating gentleman. Please cooperate. But what we're doing all we can and this phone is busy, young man, will you please? The stairs are locked, shouted Westervelt. For a moment he doubted that he had penetrated the officials panic. Then he saw a new outrage in the man's eyes. What did you say? Westervelt explained about the door to the stairs. The gentleman downstairs clapped both hands to his moist cheeks. He had begun to look numb. After a long pause, he pulled himself together enough to promise that he would look into the matter. As he switched off, Westervelt heard him muttering that it was just too much. You hear that, Joe? He asked. Yeah, and I didn't like it, replied the operator. What does that leave us? No elevators, no stairs. How about the helicopter roof? You have to walk up a flight of stairs to get there, said Westervelt, thinking of the department's three helicopters garage in their private tower roof. It's the same door. I suppose the door to the top is frozen too. Well anyway, that could be worse, said Joe. That makes two doors to knock open, and I bet your boys have some little gadget around that will do that. Westervelt felt better. There was always a way out, he told himself. Just the same. He thought he had better let Smith know about the situation. He told Joe where he was going and headed back up the hall. When he reached the corner, he tried the door again for luck. The luck was the same. He wondered whether to go look in the lab for some burning tool. On second thought, he decided that if any damage had to be done to the building, it was not his responsibility. He turned to enter the main office, flashing Paulina Wink that he hoped would look reassuring. Simonetta was busy with a case folder, but Barrel was seizing an opportunity to repair her nail polish of iridescent gold. She eyed him curiously as he bent over to whisper into the brunettes ear. Are they still working in there, sigh? He asked. She drew away with a mock frown, demanding. What's so confidential? Are you spying for Yolene? Westervelt scowled over her head out the window. It was twilight outside. And he noted that there were only a few dim lights in nearby tall buildings. I just wanted to see Mr. Smith, he forced himself to say. Don't tell me you want to go home now that you've got all the rest of us to say we'd stay. She softened when she saw that he had no wisecrack and readiness. You know I didn't mean that, Willie, she said. Is something the matter? Of all the people in the department, Simonetta was the one he found it easiest to confide in. He had to struggle with himself, especially since he saw no reason why she should not know. I, uh, just wanted to see him a minute, he said lamely. I'll come back later. He got out of the office, feeling his neck burn under the combined stairs of the two girls. In the corridor, he halted to survey the sealed off means of egress. Both the elevator and the stairway door looked normal enough except for the red exit light being dark. Westervault wondered if it would be smart to go around and adjust all the window filters so that no one would expect to see many city lights should they happen to glance outside. He went over to the door for one last examination, wishing that it were a hinge type instead of a sliding. While he was bending to peep at the lock, he heard a sound behind him and leaped up guiltily. Smith stood six feet away outside the hall door of his office. He had planted one fist on his hip and was running the other hand through his rumbled hair as he gave to Westervault. There's no keyhole there, Willie, he said at last. Westervault had the feeling that he ought to offer the perfectly simple explanation with which he had been living for what seemed like hours. The words refused to come. Does this have anything to do with the message side just brought me? Demanded Smith. What message? Asked Westervault clearing his throat. The police called and claimed someone reported seeing from the air three helicopters being stolen from our roof. Did she say that? Asked Westervault. She had the sense to write it down and told me while they were talking about submarines. Something about the way she winked made me think I'd better come out. So I told the boys I was going down the hall a minute. Westervault, he'd decide. He would not have to be alert to ducking a roused lightman charging down the corridor. Then Mr. Smith, he suggested, let's walk down that way in case someone comes out and sees us and I'll tell you all about it. They shouldn't be out for a while, Smith commented, examining the youth doubtfully. I started a little argument before I came out. Nevertheless, he followed Westervault around the far corner with a wing leading to the laboratory and restrooms. They had gone perhaps ten feet past the corner when Westervault finished the report on the elevators and came to the frozen locks on the stairway door. Smith stopped in his tracks as if to run back and check for himself, but restrained himself. You're absolutely sure, Willie? He asked. You can check with Joe Rosencrant, Mr. Smith. Or you can call the office of the building manager downstairs. Smith rubbed his high bridge nose as he pondered. His lips moved and Westervault thought he read the name Leidman. Then Smith checked off on his fingers, muttering the stairs, elevators, and helicopters. No wonder they were stolen, he said. Someone saw a chance to make some easy money with all the helitoxies taken. The police will find them tomorrow. Meanwhile, I guess it's some trouble to us at Westervault. Yes, it might be some trouble, admitted Smith. And this time said it aloud, Leidman. We won't mention it to him yet, right Willie? End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of D-99 by H.B. Fife This LibriVox recording is in public domain. The room would have been nearly a cube except for the fact that hardly any parallel lines appeared in its design. The corners were rounded and the ceiling slightly arched. The floor, though much of it was obscured by a plentiful supply of cushions, was obviously several inches higher in the center than where it curved up to meet the walls. All surfaces were the color of old ivory but seemed to be of a more porous material. The cushions could have been cut from slabs of some foamy, resilient substance that had been manufactured in several other dull colors. On two of the larger cushions placed end to end lay a blond man, long and lean. He wore a dark gray coverall that was loose as if he had lost weight. His features had a poor color, a golden tan with something unhealthy underlying it. He was, however, clean and recently shaven, and his hair was cut short if somewhat raggedly. He stirred, then blinked into the soft light of an elliptical fixture recessed into the ceiling. With a smothered groan, he came completely awake, very carefully, as if from long habit of avoiding painful movement. He rolled to his left side and braced one hand against the floor. The effort of sitting up made him bear his clenched teeth. The grimace was fleeting. He seemed to have some purpose that drove him on to roll completely off the makeshift bed until he knelt with both knees and his left hand on smooth floor. As he paused to rest, he held his right hand close to his body. After a moment, he brought his right foot up opposite his left knee. Another rest period, on hand, knee, and foot. It was required before he shoved himself away from the floor and slowly stood upright. The ceiling suddenly looked too low. He was tall, perhaps two inches over six feet. His features were regular without being especially handsome. A man sizing him up might have expected him to weigh about 190 pounds, but slight hollows in his cheeks suggested this would not be true at the moment. His eyes were blue, but the lids drooped, and he seemed to focus only vaguely upon his surroundings. At length, the man turned and walked deliberately to the side of the room where a doorless opening offered egress into what looked like a corridor. The opening was in the shape of an ellipse about five feet high and three feet wide, beginning a few inches above the floor. He bent to thrust his head into the wall, peering in both directions, but taking no heed of faint, scurrying sounds out there. Satisfied, he walked back to his bed, turned over a cushion with his toe, and kicked a small utility bag of grey plastic out into the open. The man stared at the bag for some minutes before reaching an evidently unwelcome decision. Laboriously then, he knelt until he could slide one end under a knee and slide open the zipper with his left hand. He pawed out a few items. Battery shaver, towel, deck of cards, toothbrush, which he left scattered on the floor as soon as he located the object of his search. This was a many-jointed mechanism of metal that resembled an armored centipede. It was as long as his hand and nearly as broad. He held it in his palm, as if wondering what to do with it. Some slow process of judgment having blossomed in his mind, he turned over the subject to press a small stud. The plates of the belly parted. In the recess there, he fumbled out a miniature accessory that fitted easily in the palm of his hand. This was round, about an inch thick, and might have been made of black plastic. The man's lips twitched in a tired smile as he headed it pensively. Without moving from his kneeling position, he thumbed a nearly concealed switch on the edge of the disc. Within seconds, the theme began to put forth music, a diminutive reproduction of the sound of a full orchestra. The man gradually raised his hand until he held the little player to his ear. His expression remained uncomprehending. He lowered his hand, shrugging slightly, and turned off the music. Once more, he forced himself laboriously to his feet, leaving his other belongings on the floor without a backward glance. He strode to the door with the pace of a man who had just walked five or ten miles. His long legs carried him across the distance in only a few steps, but there was a slowness, a heaviness in their motion that revealed a deep weariness. He raised one foot just high enough to step through the opening into the corridor. Outside, he turned left and walked along at the same pace, passing several other doors at irregular intervals. That they may have led to other rooms with other occupants seemed to interest him not at all. He neither glanced aside nor paused until he came face to face with a barrier, a wall blocking his path. It was the first doorway that sported a door, and the ladder was closed. It looked to be made of a plastic substance, darker than the ivory walls among which he had thus far moved, smoother. There was a grilled opening more or less centered, but no other markings. Nevertheless, the blonde man seemed to know where the portal would be fastened. He ran the tips of his fingers along one curved side, as if judging at distance. Juggling the black disc in his hand until the grip suited him better, he pressed a second switch, which was concealed at the center of the object. A thin jet of flame, so white that it far outshone the lighting of the corridor, against the edge of the door. He moved the flame along the edge for about two feet. Then he snapped it out and waited with his eyes blinking painfully. The corridor lighting had been revealed to be yellow and dim. Having rested, the man took a deep breath and shoved with his left shoulder against the elliptical door. It slipped off whatever had been holding it at the opposite edge and fell into the hallway beyond the bulkhead. He had neatly cut through two hinges on the other side. Without looking back, he stepped over the loose door and continued on his way. Eventually he came to another such barrier and he dealt with it in the same fashion. The third time he was halted, he found himself at a vertical column which passed down through an oval opening in the ceiling and disappeared through another in the floor of the corridor. The man hesitated. A vague sadness flitted across his features. Then, as if driven by some deep purpose, he approached the column in the most regular shape he had encountered anywhere. The surface of it was ringed by horizontal grooves nearly an inch deep and looked as if it would be easy to climb. From the hole below, there rose slightly warmer air bearing a blend of pungent and musty odors. The man's nostrils wrinkled. He stepped to the edge of the opening then sidled around until he had the greatest possible space on his side of the column. The instrument in his hand finally came to his attention as he reached out to touch the grooved surface. He considered it for a long moment. Apparently he was pleased at the brilliance of the thought that eventually moved him to thrust the thing into a pocket of his pants. He faced the column again and again hesitated. His right hand lifted an inch indecisively, following which a snarl of pain twisted his lips, sidling around the opening once more until he found himself having completed a circuit. He let the fingers of his left hand explore the grooves. It did not seem to occur to him to look either down or up, although faint distant sounds were born to him on the current of odoriferous air. In the end, he leaned forward until his left shoulder came against the slim column. He wrapped his left arm about it, a little scrambling, and he had gripped it between his legs. Then a slight relaxation of his hold permitted him to slide gradually downward until he slipped past the floor line. There were only a few inches to spare between his shoulders and the edge of the opening, as if the latter had not been designed for such as he. The next level into which he descended was dark. He continued to slide cautiously downward. The second level below his starting point, there was light. The corridor resembled that in which he had begun his journey. He put out one foot to catch the edge of the opening while he rested. This hallway curved not far from the man in one direction, although the other side ran straight for about 20 feet before being closed off by a door similar to the one he had removed. Around the bend floated faint noises, suggesting high-pitched conversation, although they came from too far away to reveal the nature of their origin. The tall man kept one eye cocked warily in that direction. After a few minutes, certain sounds seemed to draw nearer. The chittering talk faded, but he could hear more plainly a hushed scuffling that could have been caused by many feet, taking short hurried steps. The man released his foothold and slid smoothly below the floor level, just as moving shadows appeared at the bend of the corridor. He dropped down the column through four more unlighted levels, reaching an atmosphere that held a blend of machine oil, along with its other odors, light filtered upward with the air currents. Somewhere below was a very bright level, whence came the rhythmic throb of heavy machinery. This did not resemble the sounds of a spaceship, nor yet a terran factory, but some considerable work was being carried on. He was on a level so dim that he touched the edge of the floor opening with his toe to make sure of its location before moving off along the corridor. In the darkness, he went more slowly than before, but made better time than looked possible. Under the circumstances, he reassured himself by stretching out his left hand every few seconds to touch the smooth wall. He walked normally, though not noisily, and his sense of direction was extraordinarily good. About a hundred yards along a corridor that seemed not to have a single bend or corner, he slowed his pace doubtfully. A few steps more brought him to another closed door. This one, however, yielded to his shove, swinging back to reveal a stretch of tunnel with a bare minimum of illumination oozing from widely spaced ceiling fixtures. Here he could sense side doorways his fingers had usually missed along the darker stretch. He had gone another hundred yards and finally passed two cross corridors before he was again obliged to stop and rest. He slumped against the side wall, favoring his right arm and gazing dully before him. A few steps further along was one of the typical elliptical doorways. Through this one, some light was reflected to the wall of the corridor. The man stared at it in the way anyone in the park will turn his eye to light. After several minutes, he moved toward it as if impelled by idle curiosity. Reaching the opening, he hesitated. A strange expression flickered over his face. The decision to look or not to look was causing him great uneasiness. Finally, he stepped forward and entered a small chamber. This was evidently located so as to house another slim column that disappeared upward and downward into unknown levels. Several small oval windows were just below the ceiling at a height which presented no particular difficulty to the man when he stepped over to look through them. The scene that met his eye was a wide corridor, so wide that it might be termed a concourse or even a public square. Members of the public that were to be observed frequenting it were very, very far from being human. Two of them scurried past his window, clearly illuminated by lights far up in the dome's ceiling. They were furry, about five feet tall, lithe and cat-like in their movements. Compared to a human, they were slim and short-bodied. They possessed three arms and three legs, each set being equally spaced about their bodies. Now and then, as they walked with short, rapid steps, frequent joints were apparent in all limbs, showing clearly that they were not just muscular tentacles. From the openings at the apexes of their heads, which must have been mouths, they were streamlined in a fashion that made it more natural to picture them swimming like Terran cuttlefish up and down thick poles. The three eyes set about each head were low enough to allow for jaw muscles. The man watched this pair slide down a column set beside the wall that concealed him. Other individuals were scattered about the wide concourse. Almost without exception, they wore nothing more than a pouch secured by a belt just above what would have been the hips and a human. Clothing was made unnecessary by handsome coats of short, honey-colored fur that enhanced their feline air. Sometimes, when one or another bent or twisted, purple skin would show through the fur. Across the concourse, the man could see the open stalls that suggested shops. Most of them were dark inside, with nettings stretched across the fronts. The general atmosphere was not unlike that of a small Terran business section, or even a spaceport terminal, late in the evening with business slack and only night workers about. Abruptly, those abroad scuttled for the walls. A perfectly good reason for the exodus appeared a moment later, with low, long vehicles dashed from a high arched tunnel and shot across the open space. Each was three-wheeled and carried half a dozen individuals wearing what resembled thick plastic armor. Cages of metal guarded their heads and they bore weapons like Terran rocket launchers. The convoy passed out of sight before the man could note more. He retreated thoughtfully from the window. At the opening to the corridor, he paused indecisively. He shook his head, it might have been prudent for anyone in his position to give the corridor a searching look before entering, but this did not seem to occur to him. In seconds, he was striding along in the former direction, if anything, a trifle more briskly. As he walked, the muffled sounds from the scene he had examined faded in the distance. Once again, he was alone with his own discreet footfalls. Several times, he passed junctions of cross corridors and once he had to burn open a door. But never did he meet an inhabitant of the hive-like city. Either the way had been shrewdly chosen or it was seldom used at this period of the day. Even granting both, his luck must have been fantastic. The corridor had begun to assume an almost hypnotic monotony when it ended bluntly at a column leading only upward. The man perforce was faced with the challenge of climbing it a prospect which he obviously did not relish. Sighing, he reversed his earlier procedure and sliding down other poles. With only one good arm, pulling himself up was slow work. It was, perhaps, only the fact that the levels were constructed to suit beings 5 feet tall that made it possible for him to make it to the next level up. He sat with his legs dangling through the opening, panting, while perspiration oozed out to beat his forehead. This time, he was nearly half an hour in recovery and working up the determination required to go on. The corridor in which he found himself ran at right angles to the one below. It was wider and higher as if more traveled, but any such open area as he had peeped at was far to the rear. Nearby, however, was a much larger door than he had yet encountered. He walked over to it. When a sensitive push produced no results, he dipped his left hand into a pocket for the black disc. He seemed to have a good idea where to locate the hinges on this door, too. When he had burned through, the door was harder to shove aside because it turned out to be of double thickness. The door had been concealed from both inside and outside. The tall man now found himself only a few steps from another such portal in what looked like an anti-room. Methodically, he proceeded to burn his way through, squinting in the bright light of the flame, but otherwise betraying no emotion. The last door fell away, fresh air billowed in around him, and he could see stars in a night sky outside. Without haste, he stepped outside. The tan plastery wall reared above him for about ten levels. When it was left, shadows on the ground showed a jagged shape, so it was probable that another part of the building towered upward after a setback. The ground around the exit was perfectly level and bare of any vegetation. The nearest life was a wall of shrub-like trees about a hundred feet away. And toward these, the man began to walk in the same tired pace. He found, as if by instinct, a broad, well-kept path through the trees. A mild breeze caused the long hanging leaves to rustle. Without looking back, the man followed the path up a gentle slope and over the curb of the hill. At the bottom of the downgrade, two figures shrank suddenly back into the shadows. He kept walking. That you, Gerson, came a loud whisper as the two Terran stepped forward again. Come on, we have an air car over here. Did anyone follow you? The tall man turned to go with them through a bunch of trees. It seemed like a poor time to try to talk, with the possibility of pursuit behind them. The two bundled him into the black shape of the air car in silence, and moved it cautiously through the trees just above the ground. They raced into the clear air only when they had put half a mile between them in the towering hive city.