Delay in Transit

by F. L. Wallace

  DELAY IN TRANSIT

  by F. L. Wallace

  Galaxy, Sept. 1952

  Muscles tense," said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high. Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you. Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon."

  "Not interested," said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudible to anyone but Dimanche. "I'm not the victim type. He was standing on the walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to the habitat hotel and sit tight."

  "First you have to get there," Dimanche pointed out. "I mean, is it safe for a stranger to walk through the city?"

  "Now that you mention it, no," answered Cassal. He looked around apprehensively. "Where is he?"

  "Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandise display."

  A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he was accustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's apple bobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that all travelers were crazy.

  Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk. It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he *could* walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?

  A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it was peculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian was at a definite disadvantage.

  "Correction," said Dimanche. "Not simple assault. He has murder in mind."

  "It still doesn't appeal to me," said Cassal. Striving to look unconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway and stared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside, he might find safety for a time.

  Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to elude him in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour the streets would be brightly lighted -- for native eyes. A human would consider it dim.

  "Why did he choose me?" asked Cassal plaintively. "There must be something he hopes to gain."

  "I'm working on it," said Dimanche. "But remember, I have limitations. At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpret physiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is report what a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested in finding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problem over to the godawful police."

  "Godolph, not godawful," corrected Cassal absently.

  That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could give the police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were various reasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device called Dimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own, say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem the proper approach, either.

  "Weapons?"

  "The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A long knife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person."

  Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course in semantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man could die from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure of protection himself.

  "Report," said Dimanche. "Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, on tenuous evidence."

  "Let's have it anyway."

  "His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. For some reason you can't get off this planet."

  That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousand star systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.

  Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was a transfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When he had left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here. He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn't unusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not as reliable as they might be.

  Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected with that delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He was self-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?

  Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself. He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matched to his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On the basis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a long journey, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to go to Tunney see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save the company that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, his mission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And money wasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did the thug want?

  Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that was too well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, for anyone this far away to have learned about it.

  And yet tim thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good as dead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn't involve too much risk.

  "Better start moving." That was Dimanche. "He's getting suspicious."

  Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side of that boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usually was on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the natives like rain.

  He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled the rain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through it unhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibility and the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and the near amphibians who created it.

  A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transport tide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that made life dangerous for a human -- Venice revised, brought up to date in a faster-than-light age.

  Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitely flexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at a break-neck speed, the ribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughout the city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftly and noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human -- Cassal shivered. If he were found drowned, if would be considered an accident. No investigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him had certainly picked the right place.

  The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassal was almost positive she muttered a polite "Arf?" as she sloshed by. What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.

  "Follow her," instructed Dimanche. 'We've got to investigate our man at closer range."

  Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractive in an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not graceful out of her element, though.

  The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassal retraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow, physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do with it. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. A scientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.

  "Nothing," said Dimanche disgustedly. "His mind froze when we got close. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed. Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans. That makes the knife definite."

  Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassal stopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.

  "Excellent thinking," commended Dimanche. "He won't attempt anything on this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next deserted intersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette."

  The lighter flared in his hand. "That's one way of finding out," said Cassal. "But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated o
n getting back to the hotel?" "I'm curious. Turn here."

  "Go to hell," said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to that intersection, he turned there.

  It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oily slow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming on the other.

  He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was all very well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there was also the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, an electronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.

  "Easy," warned Dimanche. "He's at the entrance to the alley, walking fast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route."

  "I'm surprised, too," remarked Cassal. "But I wouldn't say I'm pleased. Not just now."

  "Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting." The mechanism concealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued: "His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time like this, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This is critical."

  "That's no lie," agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand. He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darkness assumed an even more sinister quality.

  "Quiet," said Dimanche. "He's verbalizing about you."

  "He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and ask me for a light."

  "I don't think so," answered Dimanche. "He's whispering: 'Poor devil. I hate to do it. But it's really his life or mine.'"

  "He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn't there any' clue?"

  "None at all," admitted Dimanche. "He's very close. You'd better turn around."

  Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made him feel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.

  A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of the alley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailant shot by.

  "Hey!" shouted Cassal.

  Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feeling that no one was going to come to his assistance.

  "He wasn't expecting that reaction," explained Dimanche. "That's why he missed. He's turned around and is coming back."

  "I'm armed!" shouted Cassal.'

  "That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you."

  Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a few seconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projected stiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgical instrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered its function, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.

  "Twenty feet away," advised Dimanche. "He knows you can't see him, but he can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare. What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keep you posted below the level of his hearing."

  "Stay on him," growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself against the wall.

  "To the right," whispered Dimanche. "Lunge forward.' About five feet. Low."

  Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects of a miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately, his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance, the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. His opponent gasped and broke away.

  "Attack!" howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. "You've got him. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He's afraid."

  Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; some didn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponent fell to the ground, gasped and was silent.

  Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay near the water side of the ~alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn't move.

  "Heartbeat slow," said Dimanche solemnly. "Breathing barely perceptible."

  "Then he's not dead," said Cassal in relief.

  Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozed from cuts on the face.

  "Respiration none, heartbeat absent," stated Dimanche.

  Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, but would the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have to investigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they would question him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but what could he do about it?

  Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney 21?

  Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom of this. "Why had the man attacked? What did he want?"

  "I don't know," replied Dimanche irritably. "I can interpret body data -- a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat."

  Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articles of no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amount of money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. A picture of a woman and a small child posed against a background which resembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.

  Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemed to be no connection between this dead man and his own problem of getting to Tunney 21.

  Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward the boulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.

  He bent. down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him. Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainly trying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as he was forced to the ground. -

  He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footsteps rushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escaping by way of water.

  Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer in sight.

  "Interpret body data, do you?" muttered Cassal. "Liveliest man I've ever been strangled by."

  "It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the basic functions of their. body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I checked him, he had no heartbeat."

  "Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely," grunted Cassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to the police.

  He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.

  Something, however, was missing -- his wallet.

  The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle. Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.

  It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police. Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It contained more money than his wallet had.

  Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for another tab.

  A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell. Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word, STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.

  The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed on the door.