Delay in Transit

by F. L. Wallace

  TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor

  It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.

  With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.

  Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.

  A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be available for consultation."

  Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he asked. "It's merely a matter of information."

  "We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostfly. "I can't give you any information until you comply with them."

  "Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to the first counselor."

  "You are speaking to her," she said. Her face disappeared from the screen.

  Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.

  Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantly supplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him, Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had of him. His individuality had been capsuled into the series of questions and answers. One thing he drew the line at why he wanted to go to Tunney 21 was his own business.

  The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed, that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average, rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at the chin and her eyes were enigmatic A dangerous woman.

  She glanced down at the data. "Denton Cassal, native of Earth. Destination, Tunney 21." She looked up at him. "Occupation, sales engineer. Isn't that an odd combination?" Her smile was quite superior.

  "Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge of customer relations."

  "Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient." Her eyebrows arched.

  "I think so," he agreed blandly. "Anything else you'd like to know?"

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

  He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.

  "You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I can guess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to study under them."

  Close -- but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though not necessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they could build Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was even less likely.

  There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21 that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studies that had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, he could help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company that could build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lag could set its own price, which could be control of all communications, transport, trade -- a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut of all that.

  His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcher to come to Earth, if he could. Literally, he had to guess the Tunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition, the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by their arrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be working for ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument as Dimanche was a key factor.

  Her voice broke through his thoughts. "Now, then, what's your problem?"

  "I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I've been here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney 21."

  "Just a moment." She glanced at something below the angle of the screen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. "Rickrock C arrived yesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning."

  "Departed?" He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. "When will the next ship arrive?"

  "Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy?" she asked.

  He didn't answer.

  That's right," she said. "Billions. Tunney, according to the notation, is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You've covered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anything within a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longer distances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly, Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up on or near Godolph. Within the next five years -- maybe."

  He blanched. "How long would it take to get there using local transportation, star-hopping?"

  "Take my advice: don't try it. Five or ten years, if you're lucky."

  "I don't need that kind of luck."

  "I suppose not." She hesitated. "You're determined to go on?" At the emphatic nod, she sighed. "If that's your decision, we'll try to help you. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identification tab."

  "There's something funny about her," Dimanche decided. It was the usual speaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the blood made in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear it plainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.

  Cassal ignored his private voice. "Identification tab? I don't have it with me. In fact, I may have lost it."

  She smiled in instant disbelief. "We're not trying to pry into any part of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easier for us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification--" She arose and left the screen. "Just a moment."

  He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name!

  "Relax," Dimanche suggested. "She didn't mean it as a personal insult."

  Presently she returned.

  "I have news for you, whoever you are."

  "Cassal," he said firmly. "Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If you don't believe it, send back to--" He stopped. It had taken him four months to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth for a ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distances such as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth for anything.

  "I see you understand." She glanced at the card in her hand. "The spaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off this morning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21."

  "It wasn't I," he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man who had tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now became clear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gotten it.

  "No doubt it wasn't," she said wearily. "Outsiders don't seem to understand what galactic travel entails."

  Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the second transfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyond the first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.

  She was still speaking: "Ten years to cross the Galaxy, without stopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling is impossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is taken off a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgently needed elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; years pass before he learns it's never coming.

  "If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn't vanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to depend on ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time, credit established, lost identification replaced--"

  "I've traveled before," he interrupted stiffly. "I've never had any trouble."

  She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center was more congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limited number of ships and using statistical probability as a guide -- why, no man would arrive at his predetermined des
tination.

  But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't compare galactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in a giant room, Or could you?

  For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own interstellar ship, was the comparison too apt? It might be.

  "You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting to be settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work." She paused. "The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the third ring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. They don't encourage immigration."

  In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take a passenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk of having a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be got rid of when his money was gone.

  Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.

  "Next time," she said, "don't let anyone take your identification."

  "I won't," he promised grimly.

  The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised his estimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he. Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not that he was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the first counselor.

  "We're a philanthropic agency," said Murra Foray. "Your case is special, though--"

  "I understand," he said gruffly. "You accept contributions." She nodded. "If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much that you'll have to compromise your standard of living." But she named a sum that would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took any appreciable time.

  He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always work, if I have to."

  "As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it dim- cult to do business with Godolphians."

  Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.

  "Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly--"

  He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The instrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large. From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that information at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he could get. Dimanche was his special advantage.

  "Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can always find something in that line."

  "A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't yet gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better as a salesman."

  He got up, glowering. "If that's all--"

  "It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slot provided for that purpose as you leave."

  A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counseling cubicle, swung open. The agency was efficient.

  "Remember," the counselor called out as he left, "identification is hard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery."

  He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency was also eminently practical.

  The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapable contribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of the bureau.

  "I've got it," said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum the first counselor had named.

  "Got what?" asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle, attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.

  "The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner."

  "What's a Huntner?" ,

  "A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizing about her home planet when I managed to locate her."

  "Any other information?"

  "None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reached her. I got out as fast as I could."

  "I see." The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless, it sounded depressing.

  "What I want to know is," said Dimanche, "why such precautions as electronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?"

  Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyingly inquisitive at times.

  Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed every sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was removing the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. He turned and peered.

  "You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.

  "Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions. "Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency were new."

  The old man chuckled. "Reorganization. The previous first counselor resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed."

  She would do iust that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?"

  The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.

  Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job, afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but he didn't intend to depend on that alone.

  "The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval. I don't understand."

  Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of homesickness swept through him.

  "Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand."

  "Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport tide."

  Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills,. at least not on terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship.

  Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at random while Dimanche probed. "Ah!"

  "What is it?"

  "That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is subvocalizing."

  "I know how he feels," commented Cassal.

  "Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can get more,' he tells himself. He is going there."

  "A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him."

  Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed if-- The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.