He thought of going back into the I.B.I. warren; he was quite sure now that it must have been taken from him while he slept. Darn funny, him falling asleep like that, at such a time. Had they drugged him? He decided against going back. Not only did he not know the name of the officer who had questioned him, nor any other way of identifying him, but more importantly he would not have done back into that place for all the baggage in Gary Station. Let it go, let it go—he’d pick up more socks and shorts before blast off!
He decided instead to go to the Caravansary. First he had to find out where it was; he walked slowly along, looking for someone who did not seem too busy nor too important to ask. He found him in the person of a lottery ticket vendor at the next intersection.
The vendor looked him over. “You don’t want to go to that place, Mac. I can fix you up with something really good.” He winked.
Don insisted that he knew what he wanted. The man shrugged. “Okay, chump. Straight ahead until you come to a square with an electric fountain in it, then take the slidewalk south. Ask anybody where to get off. What month were you born?”
“July.”
“July! Boy, are you lucky—I’ve just got one ticket left with your horoscope combination. Here.” Don had no intention at all of buying it and he thought of telling the grifter that he considered horoscopes as silly as spectacles on a cow—but he found that he had purchased it with his last coin. He pocketed the ticket, feeling foolish. The vendor said, “About half a mile on the slidewalk. Brush the hay out of your hair before you go in.”
Don found the slidewalk without difficulty and discovered that it was a pay-as-you-enter express. The machine not being interested in lottery tickets he walked the catwalk alongside it to the hotel. He had no trouble finding it; its brilliantly lighted entrance spread for a hundred yards along the tunnel.
No one seemed to help him as he came in. He went to the reservation desk and asked for a room. The clerk looked him over doubtfully. “Did someone take care of your baggage, sir?”
Don explained that he had none. “Well…that will be twenty-two fifty, in advance. Sign here, please.”
Don signed and stamped his thumb print, then got out his father’s letter of credit. “Can I get this cashed?”
“How much is it?” The clerk took it, then said, “Certainly, sir. Let me have your ID, please.” Don passed it over. The clerk took it and the fresh thumb print, placed both in a comparison machine. The machine beeped agreement; the clerk handed back the card. “You are you, all right.” He counted out the money, deducting the room charge. “Will your baggage be along, sir?” His manner indicated that Don’s social status had jumped.
“Uh, no, but there might be some mail for me.” Don explained that he was going out on the Glory Road in the morning.
“I’ll query the mail room.”
The answer was no; Don looked disappointed. The clerk said, “I’ll have the mail room flag your name. If anything arrives before up-ship, you’ll be sure to get it—even if we have to send a messenger to the field.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Not at all. Front!” As he let himself be led away, Don suddenly realized that he was groggy. The big foyer clock told him that it was already tomorrow, had been for hours in fact—he was paying seven-fifty an hour, about, for the privilege of a bed, but the way he felt he would have paid more than that simply to crawl into a hole.
He did not go immediately to bed. The Caravansary was a luxury hotel; even its “cheap” rooms had the minimums of civilized living. He adjusted the bath for a cycling hot sitz, threw off his clothes, and let the foaming water soothe him. After a bit he changed the pattern and floated in tepid stillness.
He came to with a start and got out. Ten minutes later, dried, powdered, and tingling with massage, he stepped back into the bedroom feeling almost restored. The ranch school had been intentionally monastic, oldstyle beds and mere showers; that bath was worth the price of the room.
The delivery chute’s annunciator shone green; he opened it and found three items. The first was a largish package sealed in plastic and marked “CARAVANSARY COURTESY KIT”; it contained a comb and toothbrush, a sleeping pill, a headache powder, a story film for the bed’s ceiling projector, a New Chicago News, and a breakfast menu. The second item was a card from his roommate; the third item was a small package, a common mailing tube. The card read: Dear Don, A package came for you on the P.M.—I got the Head to let me run it into Alb-Q-Q. Squinty is taking over Lazy. Must sign off; I’ve got to land this heap. All the best—Jack.
Good old Jack, he said to himself, and picked up the mailing tube. He looked at the return address and realized with something of a shock that this must be the package over which Dr. Jefferson had been so much concerned, the package which apparently had led to his death. He stared at it and wondered if it could be true that a citizen could he dragged out of his own home, then so maltreated that he died.
Was the man he had had dinner with only hours ago really dead? Or had the security cop lied to him for some reason of his own?
Part of it was certainly true; he had seen them waiting to arrest the doctor—why, he himself had been arrested and threatened and questioned, and had had his baggage virtually stolen from him, for nothing! He hadn’t been doing a thing, not a confounded thing, just going about his lawful business.
Suddenly he was shaking with anger. He had let himself be pushed around; he made a solemn vow never to let it happen again. He could see now that there were half a dozen places where he should have been stubborn. If he had fought right at the outset, Dr. Jefferson might be alive—if he actually were dead, he amended.
But he had let himself be bulldozed by the odds against him. He promised himself never again to pay any attention to the odds, but only to the issues.
He controlled his trembling and opened the package.
A moment later he was looking baffled. The tube contained nothing but a man’s ring, a cheap plastic affair such as one might find on any souvenir counter. An old English capital “H” framed with a circle had been pressed into the face of it and the grooves filled with white enamel. It was flashy but commonplace and of no value at all to any but the childish and vulgar in taste.
Don turned it over and over, then put it aside and sorted through its wrappings. There was nothing else, not even a message, just plain white paper used to pack the ring. Don thought it over.
The ring obviously was not the cause of the excitement; it seemed to him that there were just two possibilities: first, that the security police had switched packages—if they had, there was probably nothing he could do about it—and second, if the ring were unimportant but it was the right package, then the rest of the contents of the package must be important even though it looked like nothing but blank paper.
The idea that he might be carrying a message in invisible ink excited him and he started thinking of ways to bring out the message. Heat? Chemical reagents? Radiation? Even as he considered it he realized regretfully that, supposing there were such a message, it was not his place to try to make it legible; he was simply to deliver it to his father.
He decided, too, that it was more likely that this was a dummy package sent along by the police. He had no way of telling what they might have forced out of Dr. Jefferson. Which reminded him that there was still one thing he could do to check up, futile as it probably would be; he stepped to the phone and asked for Dr. Jefferson’s residence. True, the doctor had told him not to phone—but the circumstances had changed.
He had to wait a bit, then the screen lighted up—and he found himself staring into the face of the security police lieutenant who had grilled him. The police officer stared back. “Oh, me!” he said in a tired voice, “so you didn’t believe me? Go back to bed; you have to be up in an hour or so.”
Don switched off without saying anything.
So Dr. Jefferson was either dead or still in the hands of the police. Very well; he would assume that the paper came from the do
ctor—and he would deliver that paper in spite of all the slimily polite stormtroopers New Chicago could muster! The dodge the doctor had apparently used to fake the purpose of the paper caused him to wonder what he could do to cover up its importance. Presently he got his stylus from his pouch, smoothed out the paper, and started a letter. The paper looked enough like writing paper to make a letter on it seem reasonable—it might be writing paper in truth. He started in “Dear Mother and Dad, I got your radiogram this morning and was I excited!” He continued, simply covering space in a sprawling hand and finishing, when he was about to run out of paper, by mentioning an intention to add to the letter and have the whole thing sent off as soon as his ship was in radio range of Mars. He then folded it, tucked it into his wallet, and put the whole into his pouch.
He looked at the clock as he finished. Good heavens! He should be up in an hour; it was hardly worthwhile going to bed. But his eyes were trying to close even as he thought it; he saw that the alarm dial of the bed was graduated from “Gentle Reminder” to “Earthquake”; he picked the extreme setting and crawled in.
He was being bounced around, a blinding light was flashing in his eyes, and a siren was running up and down the scale. Don gradually became aware of himself, scrambled out of bed. Mollified, the bed ceased its uproar.
He decided against breakfast in his room for fear that he might go back to sleep, choosing instead to stumble into his clothes and seek out the hotel’s coffee shop. Four cups of coffee and a solid meal later, checked out and armed with hard money for an autocab, he headed for Gary Station. At the reservation office of Interplanet Lines he asked for his ticket. A strange clerk hunted around, then said, “I don’t see it. It’s not with the security clearances.”
This, Don thought, is the last straw. “Look around. It’s bound to be there”
“But it’s—Wait a moment!” The clerk picked up a slip. “Donald James Harvey? You’re to pick up your ticket in room 4012, on the mezzanine.”
“Why?”
“Search me; I just work here. That’s what it says.”
Mystified and annoyed, Don sought out the room named. The door was plain except for a notice “Walk In”; he did and found himself again facing the security lieutenant of the night before.
The officer looked up from a desk. “Get that sour look off your puss, Don,” he snapped. “I haven’t had much sleep either.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Take off your clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because we are going to search you. You didn’t really think I’d let you take off without it, did you?”
Don planted his feet. “I’ve had just about enough pushing around,” he said slowly. “If you want my clothes off you’ll have to do it.”
The police officer scowled. “I could give you a couple of convincing answers to that, but I am fresh out of patience. Kelly! Arteem! Strip him.”
Three minutes later Don had an incipient black eye and was nursing a damaged arm. He decided that it was not broken, after all. The lieutenant and his assistants had disappeared into a rear room with his clothing and pouch. It occurred to him that the door behind him did not seem to be locked, but he dropped the idea; making a dash for it through Gary Station in his skin did not appear to make sense.
Despite the inevitable defeat his morale was better than it had been in hours.
The lieutenant returned presently and shoved his clothes at him. “Here you are. And here’s your ticket. You may want to put on clean clothes; your bags are back of the desk.”
Don accepted them silently, ignored the suggestion about a change in order to save time. While he was dressing the lieutenant said suddenly, “When did you pick up that ring?”
“Forwarded to me from school.”
“Let me see it.”
Don took it off and flung it at him. “Keep it, you thief!”
The lieutenant caught it and said mildly, “Now, Don, it’s nothing personal.” He looked the ring over carefully, then said, “Catch!” Don caught it and put it back on, picked up his bags and started to leave. “Open sky,” said the lieutenant.
Don ignored him.
“‘Open sky,’ I said!”
Don turned again, looked him in the eye and said, “Some day I hope to meet you socially.” He went on out. They had spotted the paper after all; he had noticed that it was missing when he got back his clothes and pouch.
This time he took the precaution of getting an anti-nausea shot before up-ship. After he had stood in line for that he had barely time to be weighed in before the warning signal. As he was about to get into the elevator he saw what he believed to be a familiar figure lumbering onto the cargo lift nearby—“Sir Isaac Newton.” At least it looked like his passing acquaintance of the day before, though he had to admit that the difference in appearance between one dragon and another was sometimes a bit subtle for the human eye.
He refrained from whistling a greeting; the events of the past few hours had rendered him less naive and more cautious. He thought about those events as the elevator mounted up the ship’s side. It was unbelievably only twenty-four hours, less in fact, since he had gotten that radio message. It seemed like a month and he himself felt aged ten years.
Bitterly he reflected that they had outwitted him after all. Whatever message lay concealed in that wrapping paper was now gone for good. Or bad.
Couch 64 in the Glory Road was one of a scant half dozen on the third deck; the compartment was almost empty and there were marks on the deck where other couches had been unbolted. Don found his place and strapped his bags to the rack at its foot. While he was doing so he heard a rich Cockney voice behind him; he turned and whistled a greeting.
“Sir Isaac Newton” was being cautiously introduced into the compartment from the cargo hold below with the help of about six spaceport hands. He whistled back a courteous answer while continuing to supervise the engineering feat via voder. “Easy, friends, easy does it! Now if two of you will be so kind as to place my left midship’s foot on the ladder, bearing in mind that I cannot see it—Wups! Mind your fingers. There, I think I can make it now. Is there anything breakable in the way of my tail?”
The boss stevedore answered, “All clear, chief. Upsy-daisy!”
“If you mean what I think you mean,” answered the Venerian, “then, ‘On your mark; get set—GO!’” There was a crunching metallic sound, a tinkle of breaking glass, and the huge saurian scrambled up out of the hatch. Once there he turned cautiously around and settled himself in the space left vacant for him. The spaceport hands followed him and secured him to the deck with steel straps. He waggled an eye at the straw boss. “You, I take it, are the chieftain of this band?”
“I’m in charge.”
The Venerian’s tendrils quitted the keys of the voder, sought out a pouch by it, and removed a sheaf of paper money. He laid it on the deck and returned to the keys. “Then, sir, will you favor me by accepting this evidence of my gratitude for a difficult service well performed and distribute it among your assistants equitably and according to your customs, whatever they may be?”
The human scooped it up and shoved it into his pouch. “Sure thing, chief. Thanks.”
“The honor is mine.” The laborers left and the dragon turned his attention to Don, but, before they could exchange any words, the last of the compartment’s human freight came down from the deck above. It was a family party; the female head thereof took one look inside and screamed.
She swarmed back up the ladder, causing a traffic jam with her descendants and spouse as she did so. The dragon swiveled two eyes in her direction while waving the others at Don. “Dear me!” he keyed. “Do you think it would help if I were to assure the lady that I have no anthropophagic tendencies?”
Don felt acutely embarrassed; he wished for some way to disown the woman as a blood sister and member of his race. “She’s just a stupid fool,” he answered. “Please don’t pay any attention to her.”
“I
fear me that a merely negative approach will not suffice.”
Don whistled an untranslatable dragon sound of contempt and continued with “May her life be long and tedious.”
“Tut, tut,” the dragon tapped back. “Unreasoned anguish is nonetheless real. ‘To understand all is to forgive all’—one of your philosophers.”
Don did not recognize the quotation and it seemed pretty extreme to him, in any case. He was sure that there were things he would never forgive no matter how well he understood them—some recent events, in fact. He was about to say so when both their attentions were arrested by sounds pouring down the open hatchway. Two and perhaps more male voices were engaged in an argument with a shrill female voice rising over them and sometimes drowning them out. It appeared (a) that she wanted to speak to the captain (b) that she had been carefully brought up and had never had to put up with such things (c) that those hideous monsters should never be allowed to come to Earth; they should be exterminated (d) that if Adolf were half a man he wouldn’t just stand there and let his own wife be treated so (e) she intended to write to the company and that her family was not without influence and (f) that she demanded to speak to the captain.
Don wanted to say something to cover it up but he was fascinated by it. Presently the sounds moved away and died out; a ship’s officer came down the hatch and looked around. “Are you comfortable?” he said to “Sir Isaac Newton.”
“Quite, thank you.”
He turned to Don. “Get your bags, young man, and come with me. The captain has decided to give his nibs here a compartment to himself.”
“Why?” asked Don. “My ticket says couch sixty-four and I like it here.”
The ship’s officer scratched his chin and looked at him, then turned to the Venerian. “Is it all right with you?”
“Most certainly. I shall be honored by the young gentleman’s company.”
He turned back to Don. “Well…all right. I’d probably have to hang you on a hook if I moved you anyway.” He glanced at his watch and swore. “If I don’t get a move on, we’ll miss take-off and have to lay over a day.” He was up and out of the compartment as he spoke.
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