"Please," said Murra Foray. "I'm a Huntner. We're adept at camouflage."
"Huntner," he repeated blankly. "I knew that. But what's a Huntner?"
She wrinkled her lovely nose at the question. "I didn't expect you to ask that. I won't answer it now." She came closer. "I thought you'd ask which was the camouflage -- the person you see here, or the one at the Bureau?"
He never remembered the reply he made. It must have been satisfactory, for she smiled and drew her fragile wrap closer. The reservations were waiting.
Dimanche seized the opportunity to speak. "There's something phony about her. I don't understand it and I don't like it."
"You," said Cassal, "are a machine. You don't have to like it."
"That's what I mean. You *have* to like it. You have no choice."
Murra Foray looked back questioningly. Cassal hurried to her side.
The evening passed swiftly. Food that he ate and didn't taste. Music he heard and didn't listen to. Geometric light fugues that were seen and not observed. Liquor that he drank -- and here the sequence ended, in the complicated chemistry of Godolphian stimulants.
Cassal reacted to that smooth liquid, though his physical reactions were not slowed. Certain mental centers were depressed, others left wide open, subject to acceleration at what ever speed he demanded.
Murra Foray, in his eyes at least, might look like a dream, the kind men have and never talk about. She was, however, interested solely in her work, or so it seemed.
"Godolph is a nice place," she said toying with a drink, "if you like rain. The natives seem happy enough. But the Galaxy is big and there are lots of strange planets in it, each of which seems ideal to those who are adapted to it. I don't have to tell you what happens when people travel. They get stranded. It's not the time spent in actual flight that's important; it's waiting for the right ship to show up and then having all the necessary documents. Believe me, that can be important, as you found out."
He nodded. He had.
"That's the origin of Travelers Aid Bureau," she continued. "A loose organization, propagated mainly by example. Sometimes it's called Star Travelers Aid. It may have other names. The aim, however, is always the same: to see that stranded persons get where they want to go." i
She looked at him wistfully, appealingly. "That's why I'm interested in your method of creating identification tabs. It's the thing most commonly lost. Stolen, if you prefer the truth."
She seemed to anticipate his question. "How can anyone use another's identification? It can be done under certain circumstances. By neural lobotomy, a portion of one brain may be made to match, more or less exactly, the code area of another brain. The person operated on suffers a certain loss of function, of course. How great that loss is depends on the degree of similarity between the two brain areas before the operation took place."
She ought to know, and he was inclined to believe her. Still, it didn't sound feasible.
"You haven't accounted for the psychometrie index," he said.
"I thought you'd see it. That's diminished, too."
Logical enough, though not a pretty picture. A genius could always be made into an an average man or lowered to the level of an idiot. There was no operation, however, that could raise an idiot to the level of a genius.
The scramble for the precious identification tabs went on, from the higher to the lower, a game of musical chairs with grim overtones.
She smiled gravely. "You haven't answered my implied question."
The company that employed him wasn't anxious to let the secret of Dimanche get out. They didn't sell the instrument; they made it for their own use. It was an advantage over their competitors they intended to keep. Even on his recommendation, they wouldn't sell to the agency.
Moreover, it wouldn't help Travelers Aid Bureau if they did. Since she was first counselor, it was probable that she'd be the one to use it. She couldn't make identification for anyone except herself, and then only if she developed exceptional skill.
The alternative was to surgery it in and out of whoever needed it. When that happened, secrecy was gone. Travelers couldn't be trusted.
He shook his head. "It's an appealing idea, but I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Meaning you won't."
This was intriguing. Now it was the agency, not be, who wanted help.
"Don't overplay it," cautioned Dimanche, who had been consistently silent.
She leaned forward attentively. He experienced an uneasy moment. Was it possible she had noticed his private conversation? Of course not. Yet --
"Please," she said, and the tone allayed his fears. "There's an emergency situation and I've got to attend to it. Will you go with me?" She smiled understandingly at his quizzical expression. "Travelers Aid is always having emergencies."
She was rising. "It's too late to go to the Bureau. My place has a number of machines with which I keep in touch with the spaceport."
"I wonder," said Dimanche puzzledly. "She doesn't subvocalize at all. I haven't been able to get a line on her. I'm certain she didn't receive any sort of call. Be careful. This might be a trick."
"Interesting," said Cassal. He wasn't in the mood to discuss it.
Her habitation was luxurious, though Cassal wasn't impressed. Luxury was found everywhere in the Universe. Huntner women weren't. He watched as she adiusted the machines grouped at one side of the room. She spoke in a low voice; he couldn't distinguish words. She actuated levers, pressed buttons: impedimenta of communication.
At last she finished. "I'm tired. Will you wait till I change?"
Inarticulately, he nodded.
"I think her 'emergency' was a fake," said Dimanche flatly as soon as she left. "I'm positive she wasn't operating the communicator. She merely went through the motions."
"Motions," murmured Cassal dreamily, leaning back. "And what motions."
"I've been watching her," said Dimanche. "She frightens me."
"I've been watching her, too. Maybe in a different way."
"Get out of here while you can," warned Dimanche. "She's dangerous."
Momentarily, Cassal considered it. Dimanche had never failed him. He ought to follow that advice. And yet there was another explanation.
"Look," said Cassal. "A machine is a machine. But among humans there are men and women. What seems dangerous to you may be merely a pattern of normal behavior. . ." He broke off. Murra Foray had entered.
Strictly from the other side of the Galaxy, which she was. A woman can be slender and still be womanly beautiful, without being obvious about it. Not that Murra disdained the obvious, technically. But he could see through technicalities.
The tendons in his hands ached and his mouth was dry, though not with fear. An urgent ringing pounded in his ears. He shook it out of his head and got up. She came to him.
The ringing was still in his ears. It wasn't a figment of imagination; it was a real voice that of Dimanche, howling:
"Huntner! It's a word variant. In their language it means Hunter. *She can hear me!*"
"Hear you?" repeated Cassal vacantly.
She was kissing him.
"A descendant of carnivores. An audio-sensitive. She's been listening to you and me all the time."
"Of course I have, ever since the first interview at the bureau," said Murra. "In the beginning I couldn't see what value it was, but you convinced me." She laid her hand gently over his eyes. "I hate to do this to you, dear, but I've got to have Dimanche."
She had been smothering him with caresses. Now, deliberately, she began smothering him in actuality.
Cassal had thought he was an athlete. For an Earthman, he was. Murra Foray, however, was a Huntner, which meant hunter -- a descendant of incredibly strong carnivores.
He didn't have a chance. He knew that when he couldn't budge her hands and he fell into the airless blackness of space.
Alone and naked, Cassal awakened. He wished he hadn't. He turned over and, though he tried hard not to, promptly woke up again.
His body was willing to sleep, but his mind was panicked and disturbed. About what, he wasn't sure.
He sat up shakily and held his roaring head in his hands. He ran aching fingers through his hair. He stopped. The lump behind his ear was gone.
"Dimanche!" he called, and looked at his abdomen.
There was a thin scar, healing visibly before his eyes.
"Dimanche!" he cried agairL "Dimanche!"
There was no answer. Dimanche was no longer with him.
He staggered to his feet and stared at the wall. She'd been kind enough to return him to his own rooms. At length he gathered enough strength to rummage through his belongings. Nothing was missing. Money, identification -- all were there.
He could go to the police. He grimaced as he thought of it.
The neighborly Godolphian police were hardly a match for the Huntner; she'd fake them out of their skins.
He couldn't prove she'd taken Dimanche. Nothing else normally considered valuable was missing. Besides, there might even be a local prohibition against Dimanche. Not by name, of course; but they could dig up an ancient ordinance -- invasion of privacy or something like that. Anything would do if it gave them an opportunity to confiscate the device for intensive study.
For the police to believe his story was the worst that could happen. They might locate Dimanche, but he'd never get it.
He smiled bitterly and the effort hurt. "Dear," she had called him as she had strangled and beaten him into unconsciousness. Afterward singing, very likely, as she had sliced the little instrument out of him.
He could picture her not very remote ancestors springing from cover and overtaking a fleeing herd-- No use pursuing that line of thought.
Why did she want Dimanche? She had hinted that the agency wasn't always concerned with legality as such. He could believe her. If she wanted it for making identification tabs, she'd soon find that it was useless. Not that that was much comfort -- she wasn't likely to return Dimanche after she'd made that discovery.
For that matter, what was the purpose of Travelers Aid Bureau? It was a front for another kind of activity. Philanthropy had nothing to do with it.
If he still had possession of Dimanche he'd be able to find out. Everything seemed to hinge on that. With it, he was nearly a superman, able to hold his own in practically all situations -- anything that didn't involve a Huntner woman, that is.
Without it -- well, Tunney 21 was still far away. Even if he should manage to get there without it, his mission on the planet was certain to fail.
He dismissed the idea of trying to recover it immediately from Murra Foray. She was an audio-sensitive. At twenty feet, unaided, she could hear a heartbeat, the internal noise muscles made in sliding over each other. With Dimanche, she could hear electrons rustling. As an antagonist she was altogether too formidable.
He began pulling on his clothing, wincing as he did so. The alternative was to make another Dimanche. *If* he could. It would be a tough job even for a neuronic expert familiar with the process. He wasn't that expert, but it still had to be done. The new instrument would have to be better than the original. Maybe not such a slick machine, but more comprehensive. More wallop. He grinned as he thought hopefully about giving Murra Foray a surprise.
Ignoring his aches and pains, he went right to work. With money not a factor, it was an easy matter to line up the best electronic and neuron concerns on Godolph. Two were put on a standby basis. When he gave them plans, they were to rush construction at all possible speed.
Each concern was to build a part of the new instrument. Neither part was of value without the other. The slow-thinking Godolphians weren't likely to make the necessary mental connection between the seemingly unrelated projects.
He retired to his suite and began to draw diagrams. It was harder than he thought. He knew the principles, but the actual details were far more complicated than he remembered.
Functionally, the Dimanche instrument was divided. into three main phases. There was a brain and memory unit that operated much as the human counterpart did. Unlike the human brain, however, it had no body to control, hence more of it was available for thought processes. Entirely neuronic in construction, it was far smaller than an electronic brain of the same capacity.
The second function was electronic, akin to radar. Instead of material objects, it traced and recorded distant nerve impulses. It could count the heartbeat, measure the rate of respiration, was even capable of approximate analysis of the contents of the blood stream. Properly focused on the nerves of tongue, lips or larynx, it transmitted that data back to the neuronic brain, which then reconstructed it into speech. Lip reading, after a fashion, carried to the ultimate.
Finally, there was the voice of Dimanche, a speaker under the control of the neuronic brain.
For convenience of installation in the body, Dimanche was packaged in two units. The larger package was usually surgeried into the abdomen. The small one, containing the speaker, was attached to the skull just behind the ear. It worked by bone conduction, allowing silent communication between operator and instrument. A real convenience.
It wasn't enough to know this, as Cassal did. He'd talked to the company experts, had seen the symbolical drawings, the plans for an improved version. He needed something better than the best that had been planned, though.
The drawback was this: *Dimanche was powered directly by the nervous system of the body in which it was housed.* Against Murra Foray, he'd be overmatched. She was stronger than he physically, probably also in the production of nervous energy.
One solution was to make available to the new instrument a larger fraction of the neural currents of the body. That was dangerous -- a slight miscalculation and the user was dead. Yet he had to have an instrument that would overpower her.
Cassal rubbed his eyes wearily. How could he find some way of supplying additional power?
Abruptly, Cassal sat up. That was the way, of course an auxiliary power pack that need not be surgeried into his body, extra power that he would use only in emergencies.
Neuronics, Inc., had never done this, had never thought that such an instrument would ever be necessary. They didn't need to overpower their customers. They merely wanted advance information via subvocalized thoughts.
It was easier for Cassal to conceive this idea than to engineer it. At the end of the first day, he knew it would be a slow process.
Twice he postponed deadlines to the manufacturing concerns he'd engaged. He locked himself in his rooms and took Anti-Sleep against the doctor's vigorous protests. In one week he had the necessary drawings, crude but legible. An expert would have to make innumerable corrections, but the intent was plain.
One week. During that time Murra Foray would be growing hourly more proficient in the use of Dimanche.
Cassal followed the neuronics expert groggily, seventy-two hours sleep still clogging his reactions. Not that he hadn't needed sleep after that week. The Godolphian showed him proudly through the shops, though he wasn't at all interested in their achievements. The only noteworthy aspect was the grand scale of their architecture.
"We did it, though I don't think we'd have taken the job if we'd known how hard it was going to be," the neuronics expert chattered. "It works exactly as you specified. We had to make substitutions, of course, but you understand that was inevitable."
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