Delay in Transit (3 page)

 

 

 

 

She was still speaking: "Ten years to cross the Galaxy, without
stopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling is
impossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is taken
off a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgently needed
elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; years pass before
he learns it's never coming.

 

 

"If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn't
vanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to depend
on ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,
credit established, lost identification replaced--"

 

 

"I've traveled before," he interrupted stiffly. "I've never had any
trouble."

 

 

She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center was
more congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limited
number of ships and using statistical probability as a guide -- why,
no man would arrive at his predetermined destination.

 

 

But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't compare
galactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in a giant
room, Or could you?

 

 

For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own interstellar ship,
was the comparison too apt? It might be.

 

 

"You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting to be
settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work." She paused. "The
center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the third ring,
no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. They don't
encourage immigration."

 

 

In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take a passenger
without identification. No ship owner would run the risk of having a
permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be got rid of when his
money was gone.

 

 

Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.

 

 

"Next time," she said, "don't let anyone take your identification."

 

 

"I won't," he promised grimly.

 

 

 

 

The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised his
estimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as
he. Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not
that he was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the
first counselor.

 

 

"We're a philanthropic agency," said Murra Foray. "Your case is special,
though--"

 

 

"I understand," he said gruffly. "You accept contributions."
She nodded. "If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much that
you'll have to compromise your standard of living." But she named a
sum that would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took
any appreciable time.

 

 

He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always work,
if I have to."

 

 

"As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it dim- cult to do
business with Godolphians."

 

 

Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.

 

 

"Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special
knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly--"

 

 

He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The instrument
he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large. From the
business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that information at
random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he could get. Dimanche
was his special advantage.

 

 

"Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can always
find something in that line."

 

 

"A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the
Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't yet
gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better as
a salesman."

 

 

He got up, glowering. "If that's all--"

 

 

"It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slot
provided for that purpose as you leave."

 

 

A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counseling cubicle,
swung open. The agency was efficient.

 

 

"Remember," the counselor called out as he left, "identification is hard
to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery."

 

 

He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency was
also eminently practical.

 

 

The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapable
contribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of
the bureau.

 

 

 

 

"I've got it," said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum the
first counselor had named.

 

 

"Got what?" asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,
attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.

 

 

"The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner."

 

 

"What's a Huntner?" ,

 

 

"A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizing
about her home planet when I managed to locate her."

 

 

"Any other information?"

 

 

"None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reached
her. I got out as fast as I could."

 

 

"I see." The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,
it sounded depressing.

 

 

"What I want to know is," said Dimanche, "why such precautions as
electronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?"

 

 

Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyingly inquisitive
at times.

 

 

Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on
the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man
was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed every
sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was removing
the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. He turned
and peered.

 

 

"You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.

 

 

"Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting
for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions. "Why
all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. Why did
you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency were new."

 

 

The old man chuckled. "Reorganization. The previous first counselor
resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one
didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed."

 

 

She would do iust that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?"

 

 

The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed
overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.

 

 

Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,
afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He
shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but
he didn't intend to depend on that alone.

 

 

 

 

"The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she
walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval. I
don't understand."

 

 

Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of
homesickness swept through him.

 

 

"Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand."

 

 

"Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport tide."

 

 

Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been
right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills,. at least not on
terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert
themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which
the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship.

 

 

Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at
random while Dimanche probed. "Ah!"

 

 

"What is it?"

 

 

"That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is
subvocalizing."

 

 

"I know how he feels," commented Cassal.

 

 

"Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can
get more,' he tells himself. He is going there."

 

 

"A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him."

 

 

Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had
not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for
everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed if--
The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to either
Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.

 

 

Cassal stretched his stride and managed to keep the man in sight. He
skipped nimbly over the narrow walkways that curved through the great
buildings. The section grew dingier as they proceeded. Not slums; not
the showplace city frequented by travelers, either.

 

 

Abruptly the man turned into a building. He was out of sight when Cassal
reached the structure.

 

 

He stood at the entrance and stared in disappointment. "Opportunities,
Inc.," Dimanche quoted softly in his ear. "Science, thrills, chance. What
does that mean?"

 

 

"It means that we followed a gravity ghost!"

 

 

"What's a gravity ghost?"

 

 

"An unexplained phenomenon," said Cassal nastily. "It affects the
instruments of spaceships, giving the illusion of a massive dark body
that isn't there."

 

 

"But you're not a pilot. I don't understand."

 

 

"You're not a very good pilot yourself. We followed the man to a gambling
joint."

 

 

"Gambling," mused Dimanche. "Well, isn't it an opportunity of a
sort? Someone inside is thinking of the money he's winning."

 

 

"The owner, no doubt."

 

 

Dimanche was silent, investigating. '"It is the owner," he confirmed
finally. "Why not go in, anyway? It's raining. And they serve
drinks." Left unstated was the admission that Dimanche was curious,
as usual.

 

 

 

 

Cassal went in and ordered a drink. It was a variable place, depending
on the spectator -- bright, cheerful, and harmonious if he were winning,
garish and depressingly vulgar if he were not. At the moment Cassal
belonged to neither group. He reserved judgment.

 

 

An assortment of gaming devices were in operation. One in particular
seemed interesting. It involved the counting of electrons passing through
an aperture, based on probability.

 

 

"Not that," whispered Dimanche. "It's rigged."

 

 

"But it's not necessary," Cassai murmured. "Pure chance alone is good
enough."

 

 

"They don't take chances, pure or adulterated. Look around. How many
Godolphians do you see?"

 

 

Cassal looked. Natives were not even there as servants. Strictly a clip
joint, working travelers.

 

 

Unconsciously, he nodded. "That does it. It's not the kind of opportunity
I had in mind."

 

 

"Don't be hasty," objected Dimanche. "Certain devices I can't
control. There may be others in which my knowledge will help you. Stroll
around and sample some games."

 

 

Cassal equipped himself with a supply of coins and sauntered through
the establishment, disbursing them so as to give himself the widest
possible acquaintance with the layout.

 

 

"That one," instructed Dimanche.

 

 

It received a coin. In return, it rewarded him with a large shower of
change. The money spilled to the floor with a satisfying clatter. An
audience gathered rapidly, ostensibly to help him pick up the coins.

 

 

"There was a circuit in it," explained Dimanche. "I gave it a shot of
electrons and it paid out."

 

 

"Let's try it again," suggested Cassal.

 

 

"Let's not," Dimanche said regretfully. "Look at the man on your right."

 

 

Cassal did so. He jammed the money back in his pocket and stood
up. Hastily, he began thrusting the money back into the machine. A large
and very unconcerned man watched him.

 

 

"You get the idea," said Dimanche. "It paid off two months ago. It
wasn't scheduled for another this year." Dimanche scrutinized the man
in a multitude of ways while Cassal continued play. "He's satisfied,"
was the report at last. He doesn't detect any sign of crookedness."

 

 

"Crookedness?"

 

 

"On your part, that is. In the ethics of a gambling house, what's done
to insure profit is merely prudence."

 

 

They moved on to other games, though Cassal lost his briefly acquired
enthusiasm. The possibility of winning seemed to grow more remote.

 

 

"Hold it," said Dimanche. "Let's look into this."

 

 

"Let me give you some advice," said Cassal. "This is one thing we can't
win at. Every race in the Galaxy has a game like this. Pieces of plastic
with values printed on them are distributed. The trick is to get certain
arbitrarily selected sets of values in the plastics dealt to you. It
seems simple, but against a skilled player a beginner can't win."