by Allen Wold
"What did you think you were going to find out anyway?" Solvay asked.
"Evidence that my father did in fact go down to the surface eleven years ago."
"In those files? That's pretty farfetched."
"If you've tracked my search, you can figure it out for yourself. If my father is on a shuttle list, his name was changed for some reason. I was just trying to identify him."
"Even though you knew you were intruding on restricted files."
"I'm a Historian. I have the right to research whatever I want."
"You do not have the right to go into government files that contain sensitive information." Solvay's voice was tight and controlled. "I want to know why you deliberately overrode our file security system."
"I thought that I might be able to figure out what it would take to get clearance."
"You're evading the issue. But then perhaps I should expect that from someone who uses clever tricks to break into restricted files."
Once again Rikard felt that silence was his best response.
Solvay touched a button on his desk and one of the screens on its surface lit up. He looked at it for a moment.
"Look," Rikard said, hoping to distract him, "I'm not interested in anything in those files. I just want to get down to the surface and find my father. You could easily assign me someone from your office to help me. They would see to it that I didn't get into anything you want kept secret."
"Easier for you, perhaps," Solvay said without looking up.
"Easier for you too, because if you won't do that, I'll be forced to go to Higgins or Kylesplanet and get court orders giving me the power I need to find my father. I have a right to find him, no matter what security you think you need."
Solvay looked up sharply. "You'd do that?"
"Damn right I would. My father is here, and I intend to find him, whether he's alive or dead."
Solvay glanced briefly over Rikard's shoulder to where Zakroyan stood. "I don't think it's a good idea to go quite so far."
"It's your choice," Rikard said. "If you won't help me, then I'll leave tomorrow on the first ship to Higgms."
"No, I don't think you will. You're not going to go to Higgins or anywhere else."
"How are you going to stop me?"
"Very simply. I'm going to file charges of espionage, illegal access to restricted files, improper use of authority, and anything else I can think of."
"You can't prove anything that will delay me for long."
"You forget. You're not in the heart of the Federation now. Here, I'm the court. No, my friend, I mink you've just overstepped yourself."
The two police officers started paying more attention, and rested their hands on their jolters.
"I demand to speak to a Federation Police Officer," Rikard said.
"If you can find one," Solvay said, "go right ahead."
"Fine, then please call Colonel Leonid Polski. I don't know his address, but he arrived here about nine days ago."
Rikard's words took Solvay by surprise. The Director stared at him, then beyond him to Zakroyan. "Is he bluffing?" he asked her.
Zakroyan came up to stand beside Rikard. "There is a Leonid Polski registered here," she said to Solvay. "I wasn't aware that he was a Federation officer."
"Well, find out, dammit!"
Zakroyan went to the communicators mounted on the wall beside the desk. She punched a few buttons and a moment later whispered into the wall mike.
There was a pause. The response, when it came, was tuned so that only she could hear it. She listened, her eyes fixed on Solvay. Then her expression changed slightly and she turned to stare at Rikard. "Thanks," she said to the mike, and turned off the communicator.
"Colonel Polski," she said to Solvay, "is here under special orders, with complete security." She turned to Rikard. "Why is he here, do you suppose?"
"I have no idea," Rikard said. "I just met him this afternoon. We had a nice conversation. I'd like to talk to him now, please."
Solvay started to say something to Zakroyan, but she held up her hand to silence him, then leaned across the desk to whisper in his ear. Solvay occasionally glanced at Rikard, and Zakroyan looked over her shoulder at him once. The two police officers were fully alert now. They glanced from Zakroyan to Rikard and back, and kept their hands on their jokers.
Rikard was in far more physical danger than he had expected. He cursed himself silently for his incaution and indiscretion. He had thought of his search as just a bit of slightly irregular snooping, and he'd been too smug about his cleverness in breaking into the files to watch for hidden alarms. It was not the way his father would have handled the situation. The information in those restricted files must be damaging to Solvay; more than a little petty smuggling, more than Rikard had realized.
At last Solvay and Zakroyan finished their whispered consultation, and Zakroyan turned around to sit on the edge of Solvay's desk. They both stared at Rikard.
Solvay cleared his throat and said, "Well, Msr. Braeth, you wanted to go to the surface. You should be pleased to learn that we have decided that you do in fact have adequate clearance after all."
Solvay's words were a surprise and a threat. "I don't understand," Rikard said.
"It's not necessary that you do," Solvay told him. "You do want to go to the surface, don't you?"
"Yes, but..."
"Fine. The next shuttle leaves in two hours."
Rikard didn't like being put into a comer, even one of his own making. "I'd like to talk to Colonel Polski first," he said.
"I don't think that can be arranged," Solvay told him. "It is really a most inconvenient hour." He turned to Zakroyan. "Emeth, escort Msr. Braeth to his room. He is not to use the communicator for any reason whatsoever."
As she rose from the desk the two cops came forward. Rikard's palm itched madly, but he just clenched his hands. Zakroyan took his shoulder to turn him around. He shrugged her hand off and walked to the door. The two cops followed.
Outside, Zakroyan fell into step beside him. The two cops took their places immediately behind. They walked toward Rikard's hostel.
He had difficulty keeping his face under control. He wanted to go to the surface on his own terms, not under Solvay's gun. Not much choice now. He was in trouble, and possibly in danger of his life. Best to worry only about getting to the surface alive and in one piece.
As they left the administrative section, Zakroyan smirked, showing emotion for the first time. "It's a one-way ticket, Msr. Braeth."
"You're going to kill me?"
"I don't have to. If you're not tough enough, the surface will take care of that for me."
"I don't understand."
"You will soon enough." She was baiting him and enjoying his discomfiture.
There was absolutely no one in the corridors. Even at this hour there should have been a few people about. Neither was anybody on duty in the lobby of the hostel. It seemed everybody had been warned to stay out of sight.
They reached Rikard's floor, where the cops took up stations on either side of his door. Zakroyan came in with Rikard and stood with her back against the door, her arms folded, watching while he packed.
He had only one suitcase, into which he quickly put his few clothes. There were some files which he packed into his note recorder, a portable word-processing and data-base computer. He was packed within fifteen minutes. He left the suitcase and recorder on the bed and sat in the room's one chair.
He watched Zakroyan, she watched him, neither of them speaking. Rikard's nerves were on edge. At last the two hours passed, and Zakroyan stood away from the door. "We'd better get moving," she said.
Rikard picked up his two cases and, at her silent instruction, preceded her out the door. The two cops outside were alert and ready. All four walked to a part of the station Rikard had not visited before.
It was the shuttle depot, and nobody was on duty there either. Zakroyan worked the controls herself. The door slid open, the shuttle
hatch on the other side slid open, and Rikard went in. The other three did not follow. Rikard turned to see Zakroyan, a slight smile on her face, punching the controls again. The hatches closed.
There were twenty seats on the shuttle but no other passengers. Rikard tossed his suitcase on one seat, the recorder on another, and sat down in a third. There were no ports or windows. He felt his stomach clench, his palm itch. He rubbed the scar; the circles floated in his sight.
After a moment he felt a slight jerk. It surprised him. If it was just the shuttle departing the station, it should have moved without any jerk at all. A few seconds later he felt a gentle vibration, also unusual, and a sign that the shuttle was not in good repair.
The planetary drive took the shuttle away from the station and started it down to the surface. You could go from star to star in just a few days on the flicker ships. It took nearly a day to travel the relatively infinitesimal additional distance from a system's jump-slot to planetary orbit. The trip to the surface lasted an hour.
Part Two
1
The surface terminal was small by any standards Rikard knew, with facilities for only three shuttle bays, and those for human passengers only. The lifting of ore and the transshipment of other merchandise would all be handled at another part of the facility not directly accessible from here.
It was empty at this hour of the morning—unless orders had been sent down to keep people away. Rikard looked around for a floater for his suitcase and recorder, but saw none. He'd have to carry his luggage himself.
His footsteps on the not-too-clean floor echoed from the faded ceiling. He crossed the embarkation area and followed the signs to a directory located in a glass-enclosed lobby. The seats here were stained, old, and empty.
The directory proved to be less useful than he had hoped. It listed only the Port Authority offices and facilities, nothing outside the building itself. At least there was a Traveler's Aid office. He crossed the foyer to the suite where the TA was located.
Traveler's Aid was a minuscule place, not capable of handling more than a hundred people at a time. There was nobody here either. Rikard dropped into one of the lounge chairs, pulled the screen forward, and punched the arm for general assistance.
There was a long pause, as if he were the last in a line of hundreds. With nobody else in the TA office, that could only mean the equipment was old and run-down, a reasonable assumption considering the state of the rest of the terminal.
At last the screen cleared. "Directory, please," Rikard said. The white blank became the index pattern. "Living accommodations, cheapest possible."
"Temporary or permanent?" the screen asked.
"Temporary, and close to the terminal."
A list of three hostelries came on, each with a brief description. Rikard chose the first and asked for a reservation.
"All transactions are handled at the hostel," the screen told him.
That was unusual. "How do I get there, please?" Rikard asked.
A map came on the screen, showing his present position, the location of the hostel, and a route between, including his route out of the terminal.
"Do you require a printout?" the screen asked.
"No, thank you. What kind of transportation is there?"
"There is none."
"I walk?"
"Yes."
For a moment he was nonplussed. Walking through a spaceport terminal was one thing, though uncommon. But walking any distance through a city was unheard of.
"Better let me have a printout after all," he said.
The chair clicked. From a slot at the bottom of the screen came a thin sheet of white foil, a copy of the map he'd seen.
He looked at it more closely and saw that before he left the terminal and port facilities, he'd have to go through an office labeled Immigration. After that it was two blocks one way, one block left, four blocks right, a left, another left.
The hostel was a little farther away than he would have liked, if he was going to carry his own suitcase. "Are there luggage floaters for rent?" he asked.
"There are. What is your form of credit account, voucher, or currency?"
"Voucher," he said. "Also, I have a credit account on the station." The mention of currency surprised him.
"Do you wish to establish an account here?"
"Since I'll be here for a while, I guess I'd better."
"Please use slot C," the screen said. Rikard found the aperture in the left arm of the chair. "We will transfer your station credit to your local account."
He swung the screen back, pulled his suitcase onto his knees, and opened it. From a flap inside he took out a packet of foil vouchers. It was not as fat as it had once been, and the vouchers remaining were not as richly colored as the ones of larger denomination which he had long since spent. This was all that was left of his life savings.
He put the case back down, pulled the screen into place, and fed the vouchers into slot C. The screen showed a running total. When he was done, a conversion factor increased his credit value slightly. He put the palm of his right hand flat on the arm of the chair, and a moment later an ID card with his credit number came out of the slot below the screen. He put it away in his wallet, started to push the screen back, then let it fall into place again.
"Let me have a guidebook, please."
"There is none."
He sat uncomprehendingly for a moment. Every world had a guidebook. He asked again, got the same answer. He began to appreciate Solvay and Zakroyan's strategy in sending him down here. He pushed the screen back and stood. A luggage floater came up and stopped beside him. He put his suitcase and recorder on it and, map in hand, left the TA office.
He had no difficulty finding Immigration, but met no one on his way there. Even at this hour, Rikard expected a few people to be around. The building didn't feel neglected or abandoned; it was just deserted. And his complete ignorance as to why that should be so meant he would have to be very careful if" he didn't want to run afoul of local custom—or any agents Solvay might have sent down separately to check up on him.
At the Immigration office he faced a large screen, was scanned where he stood, had his ID checked, his planet of origin noted, the planet he'd last come from listed.
"How long do you expect to stay?" the Immigration screen asked him when it was through with him.
"I don't know; indefinite." He found the whole process disturbing. The immigration procedure was the most primitive he'd ever endured.
"An approximation, please."
"I really don't know. My business could take a couple of days or as much as a quarter year."
"Do you have a return ticket?"
"Uh, no."
"Permanent visit until further notice."
"How do I get a return ticket?"
"I do not have that information. You may inquire at any phone booth. May we examine your cases, please."
Rikard hefted his suitcase up onto a pedestal that started to rise from the floor in front of the screen. He had a moment's qualm. He didn't know what the local regulations were, but he was sure they did not approve of secret luggage compartments. He'd had no trouble passing this suitcase on any of the other worlds he'd visited. But then, the suitcase had been designed for normal inspection procedures. The system here was very old, and different from what he was used to. It might catch him, the way the records office up on the station had.
There was no alarm, at least none that he could hear. That in itself was not completely reassuring. But the Immigration screen just told him to put the other case on. He put his suitcase back on the floater and put the recorder on to be scanned. Nothing to worry about mere. The screen told him he could go, so he put his recorder with his suitcase, and with the floater following him, went out to the street.
It was still night. Streetlights were soft, the sky overhead black. He could see, faintly glowing above the light of the city, the rings that circled the planet.
The street was designed p
urely for pedestrians; there were no vehicles of any kind. But there wasn't anybody walking either. That made him feel nervous until he thought that maybe the city wasn't as big as he had expected.
The buildings were small—less than ten floors—unimposing, of relatively modern design. The equipment in the terminal might be badly out of date, but this part of the city could be no more than five hundred standard years old. Here, near the shuttleport, would be all the offices and agencies concerned with trade, and the local government. All planetary authorities, embassies, and so on were up on the station.
He walked up the street, away from the port, following his map. The floater followed behind. He came to the first left turn, then the right, and passed out of the area of modern buildings and into the city proper. There were still no pedestrians, but now he knew he was in trouble.
2
It was not that the buildings were old, but that they were primitive and small, built of steel and glass and porcelain, materials that had gone out of favor ages ago elsewhere in the Federation. On other worlds such building materials, along with wood or stone, were found only in neighborhoods that had been preserved or restored. This neighborhood was too lived-in for that to be the case here.
The farther he got from the port, the more the character of the buildings changed. None was more than five stories tall, and many were only two. They had no windows, just smooth, featureless facades with a central door. The streets were different here, too, and designed for vehicular traffic. There were cars of various kinds parked at the sides of the street, many of them actually wheeled. And though by their condition none of them looked to be more than ten years old, the designs were badly out of date.
Following his map, he made his second left, then the third. There was an occasional moving car on the street now, and a few people, dressed in a style he had not seen elsewhere, though he never got close enough to make out the details. The hostel was on the right, on his side of the two-lane street, just two doors from the corner.
He went through the entrance into a courtyard open to the sky. It was dimly lit, with doors on all except the street side. There were plants growing everywhere: grasses, vines, shrubs, flowers, in containers gathered in groups around the courtyard, on wall brackets, hanging from hooks. The walls were covered, one way or another, with living green and purple. There were even plants on the roof, dangling down and reaching up.
