Delay in Transit

by F. L. Wallace

  Cassal nodded.

  "For a substantial sum," said the dealer, naming it.

  Miraculously, it was an amount that equaled everything Cassal had. Again Cassal nodded.

  "Pressure," muttered Cassal to Dimanche. "The sedative has worn off. He's back at the level at which he started. Fry him if you have to."

  The cards came out slowly. The dealer was tittering as he dealt. Soft music was lacking, but not the motions that normally accompanied it. Cassal couldn't believe that cards could be so bad. Somehow the dealer was rising to the occasion. Rising and sitting.

  "There's a nerve in your body," Cassal began conversationally, "which, if it were overloaded, would cause you to drop dead."

  The dealer didn't examine his cards. He didn't have to. "In that event, someone would be arrested for murder," he said. "You."

  That was the wrong tack; the humanold had too much courage. Cassal passed his hand over his eyes. "You can't do this to men, but, strictly speaking, the dealer's not human. Try suggestion on him. Make him change the cards. Play him like a piano. Pizzicato on the nerve strings."

  Dimanche didn't answer; presumably he was busy scrambling the circuits.

  The dealer stretched out his hand. It never reached the cards. Danger: Dimanche at work. The smile dropped from his face. What remained was pure anguish. He was too dry for tears. Smoke curled up faintly from his jacket.

  "Hot, isn't it?" asked Cassal. "It might be cooler if you took off your cap."

  The cap tinkled to the floor. The mechanism in it was destroyed. What the cards were, they were. Now they couldn't be changed.

  "That's better," said Cassal.

  He glanced at his hand. In the interim, it had changed slightly. Dimanche had got there.

  The dealer examined his cards one by one. His face changed color. He sat utterly still on a cool stool.

  "You win,''I he said hopelessly.

  "Let's see what you have."

  The dealer-manager roused himself. "You won. That's good enough for you, isn't it?"

  Cassal shrugged. "You have Bank of the Galaxy service here. I'll deposit my money with them before you pick up your cards."

  The dealer nodded unhappily and summoned an assistant. The crowd, which had anticipated violence, slowly began to drift away.

  "What did you do?" asked Cassal silently.

  "Men have no shame," sighed Dimanche. "Some humanoids do. The dealer was one who did. I forced him to project onto his cards something that wasn't a suit at all."

  "Embarrassing if that got out," agreed Cassal. "What did you project?"

  Dimanche told him. Cassal blushed, which was unusual for a man.

  The dealer-manager returned and the transaction was completed. His money was safe in the Bank of the Galaxy.

  "Hereafter, you're not welcome," said the dealer morosely. "Don't come back."

  Cassal picked up the cards without looking at them. "And no accidents after I leave," he said, extending the cards face-down. The manager took them and trembled.

  "He's an honorable humanoid, in his own way," whispered Dimanche. "I think you're safe."

  It was time to leave. "One question," Cassal called back. "What do you call this game?"

  Automatically the dealer started to answer. "Why, everyone knows . . ." He sat down, his mouth open.

  It was more than time to leave.

  Outside, he hailed an air taxi. No point in tempting the management.

  "Look," said Dimanche as the cab rose from the surface of the transport tide.

  A technician with a visual projector was at work on the sign in front of the gaming house. Huge words took shape: WARNING---NO TELEPATHS ALLOWED.

  There were no such things anywhere, but now there were rumors of them.

  Arriving at the habitat wing of the hotel, Cassal went directly to his room. He awaited the delivery of the equipment he had ordered and checked through it thoroughly. Satisfied that everything was there, he estimated the size of the room. Too small for his purpose.

  He picked up the intertom and dialed Services. "Put a Life Stage Cordon around my suite," he said briskly.

  The face opposite his went blank. "But you're an Earthman. I thought--"

  "I know more about my own requirements than your Life Stage Bureau. Earthmen do have life stages. You know the penalty if you refuse that service."

  There were some races who went without sleep for five months and then had to make up for it. Others grew vestigial wings for brief periods and had to fly with them or die; reduced gravity would suffice for that. Still others--

  But the one common feature was always a critical time in which certain conditions were necessary. Insofar as there was a universal law, from one end of the Galaxy to the other, this was it: The habitat hotel had to furnish appropriate conditions for the maintenance of any life-form that requested it.

  The Godolphian disappeared from the screen. When he came back, he seemed disturbed.

  "You spoke of a suite. I find that you're listed as occupying one room."

  "I am. It's too small. Convert the rooms around me into a suite."

  "That's very expensive."

  "I'm aware of that. Check the Bank of the Galaxy for my credit rating."

  He watched the process take place. Service would be amazingly good from now on.

  "Your suite will be converted in about two hours. The Life Stage Cordon will begin as soon after that as you want. If you tell me how long you'll need it, I can make arrangements now."

  "About ten hours is all I'll need." Cassal rubbed his jaw reflectively. "One more thing. Put a perpetual service at the spaceport. If a ship comes in bound for Tunney 21 or the vicinity of it, get accommodations on it for me. And hold it until I get ready, no matter what it costs."

  He flipped off the intercorn and promptly went to sleep. Hours later, he was awakened by a faint hum. The Life Stage Cordon had just been snapped safely around his newly created suite.

  "Now what?" asked Dimanche.

  "I need an identification tab."

  "You do. And forgeries are expensive and generally crude, as that Huntnet woman, Murra Foray, observed."

  Cassal glanced at the equipment. "Expensive, yes. Not crude when we do it."

  "We forge it?" Dimanche was incredulous.

  "That's what I said. Consider it this way. I've seen my tab a countless number of times. If I tried to draw it as I remember it, it would be inept and wouldn't pass. Nevertheless, that memory is in my mind, recorded in neuronic chains, exact and accurate." He paused significantly. "You have access to that memory."

  "At least partially. But what good does that do?"

  "Visual projector and plastic which will take the imprint. I think hard about the identification as I remember it. You record and feed it back to me while I concentrate on projecting it on the plastic. After we get it down, we change the chemical composition of the plastic. It will then pass everything except destructive analysis, and they don't often do that."

  Dimanche was silent. "Ingenious," was its comment. "Part of that we can manage, the official engraving, even the electron stamp. That, however, is gross detail. The print of the brain area is beyond our capacity. We can put down what you remember, and you remember what you saw. You didn't see fine enough, though. The general area will be recognizable, but not the fine structure, nor the charges stored there nor their interrelationship."

  "But we've got to do it," Cassal insisted, pacing about nervously.

  "With more equipment to probe--"

  "Not a chance. I got one Life Stage Cordon on a bluff. If I ask for another, they'll look it up and refuse."

  "All right," said Dimanche, humming. The mechanical attempt at music made Cassal's head ache. "I've got an idea. Think about the identification tab."

  Cassal thought.

  "Enough," said Dimanche. "Now poke yourself."

  "Where?"

  "Everywhere," replied Dimanche irritably. "One place at a time."

  Cassal did so, though
it soon became monotonous.

  Dimanche stopped him. "Just above your fight knee."

  "What above my right knee?"

  "The principal access to that part of your brain we're concerned with," said Dimanche. "We can't photomeasure your brain the way it was originally done, but we can investigate it remotely. The results will be simplified, naturally. Something like a scale model as compared to the original. A more apt comparison might be that of a relief map to an actual locality."

  "Investigate it remotely?" muttered Cassal. A horrible suspicion touched his consciousness. He jerked away from that touch. "What does that mean?"

  "What it sounds like. Stimulus and response. From that I can construct an accurate chart of the proper portion of your brain. Our probing instruments will be crude out of necessity, but effective."

  "I've already visualized those probing instruments," said Cassal worriedly. "Maybe we'd better work first on the official engraving and the electron stamp, while I'm still fresh. I have a feeling . . ."

  "Excellent Suggestion," said Dimanche.

  Cassal gathered the articles slowly. His lighter would burn and it would also cut. He needed a heavy object to pound with. A violent irritant for the nerve endings. Something to freeze his flesh . . .

  Dimanche interrupted: "There are also a few glands we've got to pick up. See if there's a stimi in the room."

  "Stimi? Oh yes, a stimulator. Never use the damned things." But he was going to. The next few hours weren't going to be pleasant. Nor dull, either.

  Life could be difficult on Godolph.

  As soon as the Life Stage Cordon came down, Cassal called for a doctor. The native looked at him professionally.

  "Is this a part of the Earth life process?" he asked incredulously. Gingerly, he touched the swollen and lacerated leg.

  Cassal nodded wearily. "A matter of life and death," he croaked.

  "If it is, then it is," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I, for one, am glad to be a Godolphian." '

  "To each his own habitat," Cassal quoted the motto of the hotel.

  Godolphians were clumsy, good-natured caricatures of seals. There was nothing wrong with their medicine, however. In a matter of minutes he was feeling better. By the time the doctor left, the swelling had subsided and the open wounds were fast closing.

  Eagerly, he examined the identification tab. As far as he could tell, it was perfect. What the scanner would reveal was, of course, another matter. He had to check that as best he could without exposing himself.

  Services came up to the suite right after he laid the intercom down. A machine was placed over his head and the identification slipped into the slot. The code on the tab was noted; the machine hunted and found the corresponding brain area. Structure was mapped, impulses recorded, scrambled, converted into a ray of light which danced over a film.

  The identification tab was similarly recorded. There was now a means of comparison.

  Fingerprints could be duplicated -- that is, if the race in question had fingers. Every intelligence, however much it differed from its neighbors, had a brain, and tampering with that brain was easily detected. Each identification tab carried a psychometric number which corresponded to the total personality. Alteration of any part of the brain could only subtract from personality index.

  The technician removed the identification and gave it to Cassal. "Where shall I send the strips?"

  "You don't," said Cassal. "I have a private message to go with them."

  "But that will invalidate the process."

  "I know. This isn't a formal contract."

  Removing the two strips and handing them to Cassal, the technician wheeled the machine away. After due thought, Cassal composed the message.

  Travelers Aid Bureau Murra Foray, first counselor: If you were considering another identification tab for me, don't. As you can see, I've located the missing item.

  He attached the message to the strips and dropped them into the communication chute.

  He was wiping his whiskers away when the answer came. Hastily he finished and wrapped himself, noting but not approving the amused glint in her eyes as she watched. His morals were his own, wherever he went.

  "Denton Cassal," she said. "A wonderful job. The two strips were in register within one per cent. The best previous forgery I've seen was six per cent, and that was merely a lucky accident. It couldn't be duplicated. Let me congratulate you."

  His dignity was professional. "I wish you weren't so fond of that word 'forgery.' I told you I mislaid the tab. As soon as I found it, I sent you proof. I want to get to Tunney 21. I'm willing to do anything I can to speed up the process."

  Her laughter tinkled. "You don't have to tell me how you did it or where you got it. I'm inclined to think you made it. You understand that I'm not concerned with legality as such. From time to time the agency has to furnish missing documents. If there's a better way than we have, I'd like to know it."

  He sighed and shook his head. For some reason, his heart was beating fast. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.

  When he failed to respond, she leaned toward him. "Perhaps you'll discuss this with me. At greater length."

  "At the agency?"

  She looked at him in surprise. "Have you been sleeping? The agency is closed for the day. The first counselor can't work all the time, you know."

  Sleeping? He grimaced at the remembrance of the self-administered beating. No, he hadn't been sleeping. He brushed the thought aside and boldly named a place. Dinner was acceptable.

  Dimanche waited until the screen was dark. The words were carefully chosen.

  "Did you notice," he asked, "that there was no apparent change in clothing and makeup, yet she seemed younger, more attractive?"

  "I didn't think you could trace her that far."

  "I can't. I looked at her through your eyes."

  "Don't trust my reaction," advised Cassal. "It's likely to be subjective."

  "I don't," answered Dimanche. "It is."

  Cassal hummed thoughtfully. Dimanche was a business neurological instrument. It didn't follow that it was an expert in human psychology.

  Cassal stared at the woman coming toward him. Center-of-the-Galaxy fashion. Decadent, of course, or maybe ultra-civilized. As an Outsider, he wasn't sure which. Whatever it was, it did to the human body what should have been done long ago.

  And this body wasn't exactly human. The subtle skirt of proportions betrayed it as ah offshoot or deviation from the human race. Some of the new sub-races stacked up against the original stock much in the same way Cro-Magnons did against Neanderthals, in beauty, at least.

  Dimanche spoke a single syllable and subsided, an event Cassal didn't notice. His consciousness was focused on another discovery: the woman was Murra Foray.

  He knew vaguely that the first counselor was not necessarily what she had seemed that first time at the agency. That she was capable of such a metamorphosis was hard to believe, though pleasant to accept. His attitude must have shown on his face.