Delay in Transit

by F. L. Wallace

  He glanced anxiously at Cassal, who nodded. That was to be expected. Components that were common on Earth wouldn't necessarily be available here. Still, any expert worth his pay could always make the proper combinations and achieve the same results.

  Inside the lab, Cassal frowned. "I thought you were keeping my work separate. What is this planetary drive doing here?"

  The Godolphian spread his broad hands and looked hurt. "Planetary drive?" He tried to laugh. "This is the instrument you orderedI"

  Cassal started. It was supposed to fit under a flap of skin behind his ear. A Three World saurian couldn't carry it.

  He turned savagely on the expert. "I told you it had to be small."

  "But it is. I quote your orders exactly: 'I'm not familiar with your system of measurement, but make it tiny, very tiny. Figure the size you think it will have to be and cut it in half. And then cut that in half.' This is the fraction remaining."

  It certainly was. Cassal glanced at the Godolphian's hands. Excellent for swimming. No wonder they built on a grand scale. Broad, blunt, webbed hands weren't exactly suited for precision work.

  Valueless. Completely valueless, He knew now what he would find at the other lab. He shook his head in dismay, personally saw to it that the instrument was destroyed. He paid for the work and retrieved the plans.

  Back in his rooms again, he sat and thought. It was still the only solution. If the Godolphians couldn't do it, he'd have to find some race that could. He grabbed the intercom and jangled it savagely. In half an hour he had a dozen leads.

  The best seemed to be the Spirella. A small, insectlike race, about three feet tall, they were supposed to have excellent manual dexterity, and were technically advanced. They sounded as if they were acquainted with the necessary fields. Three light-years away, they could be reached by readily available local transportation within the day. Their idea of what was small was likely to coincide with his.

  He didn't bother to pack. The suite would remain his headquarters. Home was where his enemies were.

  He made a mental correction -- enemy.

  He rubbed his sensitive ear, grateful for the discomfort. His stomach was sore, but it wouldn't be for long. The Spirella had made the new instrument just as he had wanted it. They had built an even better auxiliary power unit than he had specified. He fingered the flat cases in his pocket. In an emergency, he could draw on these, whereas Murra Foray would be limited to the energy in her nervous system.

  What he had now was hardly the same instrument. A Military version of it, perhaps. It didn't seem right to use the same name. Call it something staunch and crisp, suggestive of raw power. Manche. As good a name as any. Manche against Dimanche. Cassal against a queen.

  He swung confidently along the walkway beside the transport tide. It was raining. He decided to test the new instrument. The Godolphian across the way bent double and wondered why his knees wouldn't work. They had suddenly become swollen and painful to move. Maybe it was the climate.

  And maybe it wasn't, thought Cassal. Eventually the pain would leave, but he hadn't meant to be so rough on the native. He'd have to watch how he used Manche.

  He scouted the vicinity of Travelers Aid Bureau, keeping at least one building between him and possible detection. Purely precautionary. There was no indication that Murra Foray had spotted him. For a Huntner, she wasn't very alert, apparently.

  He sent Manche out on exploration at minimum strength. The electronic guards which Dimanche had spoken of were still in place. Manche went through easily and didn't disturb an electron. Behind the guards there was no trace of the first counselor.

  He went closer. Still no warning of danger. The same old technician shuffled in front of the entrance. A horrible thought hit him. It was easy enough to verify. Another "reorganization" had taken place. The new sign read:

  STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU STAB Your Hour of Need Delly Mortinbras, first counselor

  Cassal leaned against the building, unable to understand what it was that frightened and bewildered him. Then it gradually became, if not clear, at least not quite so muddy.

  STAB was the word that had been printed on the card in the money clip that his assailant in the alley had left behind. Cassal had naturally interpreted it as an order to the thug. It wasn't, of course.

  The first time Cassal had visited the Travelers Aid Bureau, it had been in the process of reorganization. The only purpose of the reorganization, he realized now, had been to change the name so he wouldn't translate the word on the slip into the original initials of the Bureau.

  Now it probably didn't matter any more whether or not he knew, so the name had been changed back to Star Travelers Aid Bureau -- STAB.

  That, he saw bitterly, was why Murra Foray had been so positive that the identification tab he'd made with the aid of Dimanche had been a forgery.

  *She had known the man who robbed Cassal of the original one, perhaps had even helped him plan the theft.*

  That didn't make sense to Cassal. Yet it had to. He'd suspected the organization of. being a racket, but it obviously wasn't. By whatever name it was called, it actually was dedicated to helping the stranded traveler. The question was -- which travelers?

  There must be agency operatives at the spaceport, checking every likely prospect who arrived, finding out where they were going, whether their papers were in order. Then, just as had happened to Cassal, the prospect was robbed of his papers so somebody stranded here could go on to that destination!

  The shabby, aging technician finished changing the last door sign and hobbled over to Cassal. He peered through the rain and darkness.

  "You stuck here, too?" he quavered.

  "No," said Cassal with dignity, shaky dignity. "I'm not stuck. I'm here because I want to be."

  "You're crazy," declared the old man. "I remember--" ,

  Cassal didn't wait to find out what it was he remembered. An impossible land, perhaps, a planet which swings in perfect orbit around an ideal sun. A continent which reared a purple mountain range to hold up a honey sky. People with whom anyone could relax easily and without worry or anxiety. In short, his own native world from which, at night, all the constellations were familiar.

  Somehow, Cassal managed to get back to his suite, tumbled wearily onto his bed. The showdown wasn't going to take place.

  Everyone connected with the agency -- including Murra Foray -- had been "stuck here" for one reason or another; no identification tab, no money, whatever it was. That was the staff of the Bureau, a pack of desperate castaways. The "philanthropy" extended to them and nobody else. They grabbed their tabs and money from the likeliest travelers, leaving them marooned here and they in turn had to join the Bureau and use the same methods to continue their journeys through the Galaxy.

  It was an endless belt of stranded travelers robbing and stranding other travelers, who then had to rob and strand still others, and so on and on. . .

  Cassal didn't have a chance of catching up with Murra Foray. She had used the time -- and Dimanche -- to create her own identification tab and escape. She was going back to Kettikat, home of the Huntners, must already be light-years away.

  Or was she? The signs on the Bureau had just been changed. Perhaps the ship was still in the spaceport, or cruising along below the speed of light. He shrugged defeatedly. It would do him no good; he could never get on board.

  He got up suddenly on one elbow. He couldn't, but Manche could! Unlike his old instrument, it could operate at tremendous distances, its power no longer dependent only on his limited nervous energy.

  With calculated fury, he let Manche strike out into space.

  "There you are!" exclaimed Murra Foray. "I thought you could do it."

  "Did you?" he asked coldly. "Where are you now?"

  "Leaving the atmosphere, if you can call the stuff around this planet an atmosphere."

  "It's not the atmosphere that's bad," he said as nastily as he could. "It's the philanthropy."

  "Please don't feel that way,
" she appealed. "Huntners are rather unusual people, I admit, but sometimes even we need help. I had to have Dimanche and I took it."

  "At the risk of killing me."

  Her amusement was strange; it held a sort of sadness. "I didn't hurt you. I couldn't. You were too cute, like a -- well, the animal native to Kettikat that would be called a Teddy bear on Earth. A cute, lovable Teddy bear."

  "Teddy bear," he repeated, really stung now. "Careful. This one may have claws."

  "Long claws? Long enough to reach from here to Kettikat?" She was laughing, but it sounded thin and wistful.

  Manche struck out at Cassal's unspoken command. The laughter was canceled.

  "Now you've done it," said Dimanche. "She's out cold."

  There was no reason for remorse; it was strange that he felt it. His throat was dry.

  "So you, too, can communicate with me. Through Manche, of course. I built a wonderful instrument, didn't I?"

  "A fearful one," said Dimanche sternly. "She's unconscious."

  "I heard you the first time." Cassal hesitated. "Is she dead?"

  Dimanche investigated. "Of course not. A little thing like that wouldn't hurt her. Her nerve system is marvelous. I think it could carry current for a city. Beautiful!"

  "I'm aware of the beauty," said Cassal.

  An awkward silence followed. Dimanche broke it. "Now that I know the facts, I'm proud to be her chosen instrument. Her need was greater than yours."

  Cassal growled, "As first counselor, she had access to every--"

  "Don't interrupt with your half truths," said Dimanche. "Huntners are special; their brain structure, too. Not necessarily better, just different. Only the auditory and visual centers of their brains resemble that of man. You can guess the results of even superficial tampering with those parts of her mind. And stolen identification would involve lobotomy."

  He could imagine? Cassal shook his head. No, he couldn't. A blinded and deaf Murra Foray would not go back to the home of the Huntners. According to her racial conditioning, a sightless young tiger should creep away and die.

  Again there was silence. "No, she's not pretending unconsciousness," announced Dimanche. "For a moment I thought -- but never mind."

  The conversation was lasting longer than he expected. The ship must be obsolete and slow. There were still a few things he wanted to find out, if there was time.

  "When are you going on Drive?" he asked.

  "We've been on it for some time," answered Dimanche.

  "Repeat that!" said Cassal, stunned.

  "I said that we've been on faster-than-light drive for some time. Is there anything wrong with that?"

  Nothing wrong with that at all. Theoretically, there was only one means of communicating with a ship hurtling along faster than light, and that way hadn't been invented.

  *Hadn't been until he had put together the instrument he called Manche.*

  Unwittingly, he had created far more than he intended. He ought to have felt elated.

  Dimanche interrupted his thoughts. "I suppose you know what she thinks of you."

  "She made it plain enough," said Cassal wearily. "A Teddy bear. A brainless, childish toy."

  "Among the Huntners, women are vigorous and aggressive," said Dimanche. The voice grew weaker as the ship, already light-years away, slid into unfathomable distances. "Where words are concerned, morals are very strict. For instance, 'dear' is never used unless the person means it. Huntner men are weak and not overburdened with intelligence."

  The voice was barely audible, but it continued: "The principal romantic figure in the dreams of women. . ." Dimanche failed altogether.

  "Manche!" cried Cassal.

  Manche responded with everything it had. ". . . is the Teddy bear."

  The elation that had been missing, and the triumph, came now. It was no time for hesitation, and Cassal didn't hesitate. Their actions had been directed against each other, but their emotions, which each had tried to ignore, were real and strong.

  The gravitor dropped him to the ground floor. In a few minutes, Cassal was at the Travelers Aid Bureau.

  Correction. Now it was Star Travelers Aid Bureau.

  And, though no one but himself knew it, even that was wrong, Quickly he found the old technician.

  "There's been a reorganization," said Cassal bluntly. "I want the signs changed."

  The old man drew himself up. "Who are you?"

  "I've just elected myself," said Cassal. "I'm the new first counselor."

  He hoped no one would be foolish enough to challenge him. He wanted an organization that could function immediately, not a hospital full of cripples.

  The old man thought about it. He was merely a menial, but he had been with the bureau for a long time. He was nobody, nothing, but he could recognize power when it was near him. He wiped his eyes and shambled out into the fine cold rain. Swiftly the new signs went up.

  STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU S. T. A. with us Denton Cassal, first counselor

  Cassal sat at the control center. Every question cubicle was visible at a glance. In addition there was a special panel, direct from the spaceport, which recorded essential data about every newly arrived traveler. He could think of a few minor improvements, but he wouldn't have time to put them into effect. He'd mention them to his assistant, a man with a fine, logical mind. Not really first-rate, of course, but well suited to his secondary position. Every member quickly rose or sank to his proper level in this organization, and this one had, without a struggle.

  Business was dull. The last few ships had brought travelers who were bound for unimaginably dreary destinations, nothing he need be concerned with.

  He thought about the instrument. It was the addition of power that made the difference. Dimanche plus power equaled Manche, and Manche raised the user far above tho level of other men. There was little to fear.

  But essentially the real value of Manche lay in this -- it was a beginning. Through it, he had communicated with a ship traveling far faster than light. The only one instrument capable of that was instantaneous radio. Actually it wasn't radio, but the old name had stuck to it.

  Manche was really a very primitive model of instantaneous radio. It was crude; all first steps were. Limited in range, it was practically valueless for the purpose now. Eventually the range would be extended. Hitch a neuronic manufactured brain to a human one, add the power of a tiny atomic battery, and Manche was created.

  The last step was his share of the invention. Or maybe the credit belonged to Murra Foray. If she hadn't stolen Dimanche, it never would have been necessary to put together the new instrument.

  The stern lines on his face relaxed. Murra Foray. He wondered about the marriage customs of the Huntners. He hoped marriage *was* a custom on Kettikat.

  Cassal leaned back; officially, his mission was complete. There was no longer any need to go to Tunney 21. The scientist he was sent to bring back might as well remain there in obscure arrogance. Cassal knew he should return to Earth immediately. But the Galaxy was wide and there were lots of places to go.

  Only one he was interested in, though -- Kettikat, as far from the center of the Galaxy as Earth, but in the opposite direction, incredibly far away in terms of trouble and transportation. It would be difficult even for a man who had the services of Manche.

  Cassal glanced at the board. Someone wanted to go to Zombo.