The Planet Killers: Three Novels of the Spaceways (Planet Stories (Paizo Publishing) Book 32)

by Silverberg, Robert

  Catton told the same story word-for-word to both of them. He had been on Morilar only a couple of days, had met the Ambassador’s daughter twice, had had a brief conversation with her at the ball the night before. She had talked obliquely of being in love, but Catton could provide no details. After all, he had hardly known the girl.

  The interrogation over, Catton made his way up to his room and settled down. He was puzzled and not happy over the girl’s disappearance. Doveril was a criminal, as Estil had suspected—but yet she had run away with him the very day after she had asked Catton to check on Doveril’s record. Perhaps she had had a sudden change of heart, and decided to elope before Catton could provide her with the information she did not want to have; or else there had been some coercion involved in her abrupt disappearance. Catton hoped not. But for the sake of his own investigations he decided to keep quiet about those aspects of the case he had data on.

  The next day he kept his appointment with Nuuri Gryain, meeting her once again at The Five Planets shortly after noon. It was a swelteringly hot day. Catton was growing accustomed to the oven heat of Dyelleran.

  The Morilaru woman was waiting for him at the table nearest the door. She was bent over a local news-sheet, puzzling out the wedge-shaped characters. As he came in she looked up, smiling coldly.

  “Morning greetings, Catton.”

  “Hello, Nuuri. What’s in the paper?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. My reading isn’t so good, Earthman.” She chuckled. “I find this item interesting. Can you read our language?”

  “Well enough to decipher a newspaper,” Catton said. She shoved the sheet over to him and tapped a front-page story meaningfully. Catton frowned. The headline said, clearly enough, DAUGHTER OF TERRAN AMBASSADOR VANISHES . It was an article about Estil Seeman. He read slowly though it. About all it said was that the Earthgirl had disappeared yesterday, leaving a note for her father—contents unspecified—and that a galaxy-wide search was being instituted for her.

  “It seems Doveril has lost a pupil,” Nuuri commented when Catton looked up.

  The Earthman frowned. “It would seem that way. Think she’ll be found?”

  “Who knows? The galaxy is a big place; a young girl can lose herself easily enough. I doubt they’ll ever find her.”

  “Enough talk of the girl,” Catton said. “You know why I’m here today.”

  “Of course. I’ll take you where you can buy what you’re looking for. But first a disguise is in order. Come—let’s leave.”

  Catton followed her out into the street, which was all but empty because of the mid-day heat. She strode purposefully along at a rapid pace, turning corners twice, and stopped finally in front of a shabby shop with darkened windows.

  She threw open the door.

  “In here,” she muttered to Catton.

  The Earthman stepped inside. An old Morilaru, so old his skin had faded from its one-time purple to a musty grayish-blue, sprawled dozing behind a counter. Nuuri slapped the flat of her hand down on the wood inches from his face. The Morilaru awoke with a start.

  “Nuuri! What—”

  “A job for you, you old fool.” She indicated Catton. “Turn him into a Dargonid, and do a good job of it for your money.”

  “Right now?”

  “This very moment,” Nuuri snapped.

  The ancient Morilaru elbowed himself wearily upward, beckoned to Catton, and shambled off into a back room partitioned from the front of the shop by a frayed and dilapidated curtain of glass beads. Nuuri followed, standing in the doorway with her arms knotted together across her chest, hands gripping shoulder-spikes in a typical Morilaru posture of relaxation.

  Catton blinked uneasily. “Just how permanent is this transformation going to be?”

  “It will take fifteen minutes to make the change, half that time to restore you,” the old man said. “It is a simple enough process. Remove your clothes.”

  Catton eyed Nuuri questioningly, but she made no motion to leave. He shrugged and stripped off his clothing, tossing it carelessly in a corner. The Morilaru selected a spraysqueeze vial from a rack and advanced on Catton.

  “Shut your eyes.”

  Catton did so. A moment later he smelled an acrid chemical odor and felt a faint coolness playing about his body. The application took several minutes. When it was complete, Catton opened his eyes again and saw that his body was now colored iron-gray from head to foot.

  The rest of the disguise followed in short order. Catton was fitted for contact lenses that provided him with yellow pupils on a black background; another spray turned his hair from brown to blue; lovingly-applied strips of collodion accented his cheekbones, tripled the length of his earlobes, and gave a downward slant to his eyebrows. The final touch was the clothing; the Morilaru stored Catton’s Earthman clothes in a locker and gave him the brief tunic of a Dargonid.

  Nuuri came forward, jabbed a finger against the flesh of Catton’s shoulder, and scrubbed it up and down to test the permanence of the color-spray. It held fast. She nodded in critical approval.

  “A fine job. Catton, you look like a native-born of Dargon.”

  “Will it convince your friends?”

  “I’m sure of it.” She nodded at the old man. “Pay him, Catton.”

  “How much?”

  “Five thrones?” the old man suggested hopefully.

  Nuuri snorted. “Give him a hundred units now, and a hundred more when we return—for the safekeeping of your clothes. Two thrones is more than enough.”

  Disappointment was evident on the venerable Morilaru’s seamed face. But Catton did not care to cross Nuuri. He took two fifty-unit pieces from his money belt and gave them to the Morilaru.

  “Here’s a throne for you,” Catton said. “Another for you later in the day.”

  “My gratitude, good sir.”

  “Come on,” Nuuri said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They left through a back exit and walked briskly through the crooked, vile-smelling streets. Catton was steaming beneath his layer of coloring, but he forced himself to keep pace with the girl.

  “What’s my name?” he asked. “And why am I here?”

  Nuuri thought for a moment. “You’re—ah—Zord Karlsrunig. I once knew a Dargonid of that name. You’re a merchant here on business, leaving for Dargon at the end of the week. Don’t worry about the other details. Hide behind your passion for anonymity. The purchaser has certain rights of silence too, you know.”

  “Zord Karlsrunig,” Catton repeated. “All right. And the story is that I’m in the market for a hypnojewel, and am willing to pay cash down for it.”

  “Yes. We’ll make all the necessary negotiations. Then you’ll tell them you have to return to the bank to get the cash. Instead, of course, you notify the authorities.”

  Some minutes later, they paused in front of another saloon, this one emblazoned with the name, The Deeper Draught. It was smaller and, if anything, dingier-looking than the other bar, The Five Planets, where Catton had first met Nuuri.

  “Wait here and don’t get into trouble,” Nuuri whispered. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Catton nodded. The alien woman went inside. He waited at the door, trying to rehearse his lines, struggling to don the character of a Dargonid. He would have to introduce a slight guttural quality into his speech, and perhaps adopt some clumsy locutions of construction. He would have to remember never to display a characteristically Terran posture—crossing his legs was out, and steepling his fingertips. Dargonids—how the devil did Dargonids hold themselves, he wondered?—Dargonids customarily sat with one hand on their kneecap, the other gripping the first arm’s elbow. It would be awkward for him, but he knew he had better perform the gesture as if he had been doing it all his life.

  Nuuri returned a few moments later. She looked angry. “They’re all there—except Doveril! Except the one I was most anxious to have apprehended!”

  That was no surprise, Catton thought, in view of
the fact that the Morilaru music teacher was by now many light-years away, bound outward for—where?—with his beloved. But he did not want Nuuri to know that.

  “Take me inside anyway,” he said. “We’ll round up this batch whether Doveril’s here or not.”

  “But I don’t care if the others are arrested. I’m only interested in arranging Doveril’s downfall.”

  Catton scowled. “I’ll see to it that Doveril is implicated somehow.” His hand darted out, seized her wrist. “You’ve taken me this far. Don’t back out now. We’ll catch these, and one of them will confess Doveril’s complicity.”

  Sighing, she said, “Very well. Come inside with me.”

  They passed through a poorly lit, foul-smelling saloon whose only customers were two bedraggled Morilaru drabs, and he followed her up a creaking stairway to the upper floor of the tavern, where, inn-fashion, there were a few rooms available for lodging.

  Nuuri paused in front of the furthermost of the rooms and knocked twice, then twice more. The door opened. A Morilaru head popped warily out, looked around, stared curiously at Catton.

  “You may enter.”

  Catton followed Nuuri into the room. There were five male Morilaru there, of indeterminate ages. The Earthman realized with a sudden jolt of shock that one of the aliens was Gonnimor Cleeren, the friend of Doveril’s who had been present at the music-lesson the afternoon of the Ambassador’s ball. Cleeren was staring at Catton keenly, but gave no outward indication that he had penetrated the Earthman’s disguise.

  One of the other Morilaru said, “You speak our language, Dargonid?”

  “Well enough,” Catton answered, putting the accent on the wrong syllable in each of the two Morilaru words. “I understand you, and my money speaks even more well for me, Morilaru.”

  “The woman tells us you wish to buy.”

  Catton tipped his head to one side, a Dargonid affirmative gesture. Thank God, he thought, that he had once carried out an assignment on Dargon. It had been years ago, but he still remembered many behavior patterns of that predominantly mercantile world.

  “I wish to buy, yes. And you, to sell. But can you give immediate delivery? I return to Dargon shortly.”

  “If you can pay, we can deliver.”

  “My account is large at the great bank,” Catton said. “Though I will not be cheated on the price.”

  “The price,” said another of the Morilaru, “is ten thousand thrones.”

  Catton inserted a finger in his mouth to show annoyance. After a brief silence he said, “It is much for a piece of polished stone. I will give you six thousand.”

  “Ten thousand,” repeated the Morilaru, “and not a unit less.”

  Catton shook his head. “Six thousand is too high. But I will extend my price another few thousand units. I offer you six thousand five hundred thrones.”

  “Ten thousand,” said the Morilaru inflexibly.

  The Earthman was pensive. As a thrifty Dargonid, he was expected to haggle; as an investigator, he was interested only in making the incriminating purchase. But if he gave in too easily, they might suspect him.

  He said, “You are stubborn men. Well, I stubborn can be with equality. Break your price or I go elsewhere. If need be I will go to the wholesale source for the stones.”

  Several of the Morilaru laughed at that. One said, “You’ll need a strong nose, Dargonid!” Another scowled at the one who had spoken. Catton narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. That was a useful bit of information. The strong odor of Skorg was proverbial in the galaxy; were they implying that the hypnojewels came from there? Catton filed the information away.

  He rose. “Business I will do, extortion no. I raise my offer to seven thousand two hundred thrones. Will you be inflexible?”

  “The price is ten thousand.”

  Catton flicked his tongue back and forth in the Dargonid equivalent of a shrug. “I argue not. Your price is too high. Thank you for your courtesies,” he said to Nuuri. “And to the rest of you, good day.”

  He edged toward the door, taking his time, wondering if his bluff would be called.

  As his hand touched the doorknob a voice behind him said, “Wait.”

  Catton turned. “Why?”

  “Nine thousand five hundred thrones.”

  “Eight thousand.”

  “You Dargonids would bargain for hours of your life!” the Morilaru spokesman exclaimed. “Nine thousand is our lowest price. You’ve peeled a thousand thrones off—be content with that.”

  Catton was silent a long moment. At length he said, “We are hardly more than ten percent apart. I offer you eight thousand five hundred as a meeting-ground.”

  The Morilaru eyed each other, debating silently. They nodded. “Done,” the spokesman said. “When will you have the cash?”

  “I’ll leave you five hundred thrones as a binder. The rest will I obtain at my bank within the hour. When will I receive the stone?”

  “Upon payment. Would you inspect it now?”

  “I would indeed.”

  One of the Morilaru knelt, peeled up a loose floorboard, drew forth a small velvet pouch. He tossed it to Catton, who fumbled the catch deliberately, then snatched the falling pouch with his other hand in a desperate grab. The Dargonids had the reputation of clumsiness.

  He snatched a glance at the Morilaru. They seemed to be holding their breaths.

  “Be wary, Dargonid,” the spokesman advised him. “You know the peril of the stone.”

  “That I do,” Catton replied. He undid the catch at the mouth of the pouch and let the stone drop out onto the palm of his hand. He looked at it only long enough to verify its identity, then returned it to the pouch and tossed it back to the Morilaru.

  “I am satisfied. Herewith the binder; I’ll return with the rest within the hour. Remain you here.”

  Catton counted out ten golden fifty-throne pieces from his moneybelt and handed them across to the Morilaru. Then, bowing courteously, he withdrew from the room, leaving Nuuri there with the hypnojewel smugglers.

  He made his way rapidly through the tangle of streets to the nearest bridge into the eastern half of the city. After making sure no one had followed him, he stepped into the first public communicator-booth he found, and dialed the number of Pouin Beryaal.

  After the usual routine delays, Beryaal appeared on the tiny screen.

  “Close your circuit,” Catton ordered. “This is important material.”

  “The circuit is sealed. Speak away.”

  “I’ve encountered a ring of hypnojewel peddlers. They’ve agreed to sell me a stone for eighty-five hundred thrones. I left five hundred as a binder and I’m supposedly on my way to the bank to get the rest.”

  Beryaal’s eyes widened. “Have you seen the stone?”

  “Yes. It’s the real item.”

  “I suppose this accounts for the alteration in your face,” Beryaal commented. The screen, black-and-white, did not indicate Catton’s color change. “Very well. Where can they be found?”

  “A tavern called The Deeper Draught, across the river on the Street of Cutpurses. Upstairs, in the furthermost room from the stairs.”

  “I’ll have men there in twenty minutes,” Beryaal promised.

  Chapter Six

  The arrest went off smoothly enough. Catton and Pouin Beryaal had agreed on the details before breaking the communicator contact. Catton was to be allowed to escape; Nuuri would be arrested and later freed.

  The Earthman went on to the Grand Bank of Morilar and drew out eight thousand thrones from the special account placed there for his use. The clerk frowned in confusion at the inexplicable sight of a Dargonid drawing money from a Terran account, but the identification-placket matched, and the teller had no choice but to hand Catton eight crisp thousand-throne bills.

  Catton took a cab across the bridge, left it at the Street of Two Moons, and covered the rest of the way to The Deeper Draught on foot. He was rapidly learning his way around the knotty maze of streets in Dyelleran’s
Old Quarter. His mnemonic training stood him, as always, in good stead in this city.

  He had timed his excursion precisely. Unless Beryaal’s crime-detection men missed their cue, he would have three or four minutes and no more before the arrest. He mounted the tavern stairs two at a time and knocked in the prescribed manner on the door.

  “It is I, Karlsrunig, the Dargonid. Let me in!”

  The door swung back. Catton nodded in satisfaction. All of the Morilaru were still there, a tense, narrow-eyed group. Nuuri looked particularly nervous. Catton said, “I have the cash. Take the stone from its hiding-place.”

  “Show us the money.”

  Catton riffled the eight bills in front of them. The stone was produced. Catton said slowly, “Seven thousand five hundred thrones?”

  “The deal was closed at eighty-five hundred,” the Morilaru reminded him. “Would you bargain now?”

  Catton smiled. “Force of habit solely, friends. Let me have the stone.”

  “At the agreed sum?”

  “Here is my money. Eight thousand, plus the five hundred you have already. The stone!”

  Catton extended the eight bills, and at the same time reached out a hand for the pouch. The timing of the crime-detection men was extraordinary. Catton and the Morilaru were frozen for a moment in a little tableau, each with one hand on the money and one on the pouch, when the door exploded inward. A bright purple flash of light told Catton that the transaction was preserved on film, as indisputable evidence. A moment later, after an abortive exchange of shots, the arrest was concluded. One Morilaru lay dead, his body gone above the chest. The others, as well as Nuuri and Catton, held hands high in the air.

  “I’ll have that pouch,” said the crime-detection group’s leader. He snatched it, opened it wide enough to ascertain that it held a hypnojewel, and pocketed it. “All right, come along, all of you.”

  As they reached the street Catton felt the handcuffs that bound him suddenly loosen and drop away; they had been set, by prearrangement, for only three minutes. He squirmed out of the middle of the group of captives, cut sharply to his left, and streaked for a garbage-bordered alleyway. The crime-detection men shouted sharply; one dashed after him, firing a blaster burst that nearly seared Catton’s shoulder. The Earthman ducked into a beckoning doorway and crouched there a few minutes. He peeped out, finally, and saw that the captives had been taken away. One of Beryaal’s men had remained behind, ostensibly to search for the escaped Dargonid, for the sake of appearances.