The driver had us in under the dome overhang and into a slot that said, Ten minutes! This Means YOU!
He said, "Don't you be too long or I'll get a fender bash from the local bluebottles!"
"Before much longer, you're going to be rich," I said. "So shut up."
"Hey," he said, suddenly interested. "You gonna rob this place?" Silly nut. They don't even keep money in Central Directory.
I sauntered in. Actually there were no more than one or two thousand enquirers and there were a lot of empty interview chairs. I was looking for a female clerk that could turn out to be a complete nitwit. Somebody really dumb. I found her simply by the fact that other customers were avoiding her counter area. This would not take long.
"We have an emergency," I said. "We need the absolute topauthority on cellology in Voltar." Her hair was done up in a tall peak like a temple. Probably that was the shape of her skull underneath. I had to explain what a cellologist was. She punched it out on her keyboard and the symbols appeared on the desk top before her, upside down to me. I can read upside down. Anybody in the Apparatus can.
"You want his communications number?" said vacuum brain. That's what they do in Central Directory.
"I have to make sure he's the top authority first. Do you mind?" I reached over across the desk top to the key ranks. I started punching and this lunkhead just sat there interestedly watching me.
You can strip down a lot of data from these communication information consoles. They run off whole categories of professions as well as businesses. They tell you where this or that person can be reached right then if he is in the habit of inspecting calls. To keep from confusing this person with that, they give full identoplate data. And in case the person wants some new service, they give his credit rating.
It was nursery school stuff to get all the senior teaching cellologists on Voltar, to get their credit ratings – which is an index to how high up they are in a profession – to get the listed full identoplate data of these top ones, where they were right this minute and to get every bit of that data rolled off and delivered.
Temple-skull just sat and watched me operate her machine backwards. Maybe she was learning how to use it. Who knows?
When I had the stack of sheets, I said, "Oh, dear! These will be much too expensive!" There was no such data on any sheet I had pulled but chuckle-wit nodded wisely. Where do they find these girls? Back country of Taugo? Where the men have tails?
I punched in cellologists who had very recently had new office service installed, which meant they had just completed all their training, had passed all examinations of qualification. Then I got their full credit backgrounds including histories and origins. Then I got their identoplates. It was a foot-high stack.
"Now do you want someone's communication number?" said marvel-wit.
I had a foot and a half stack of closely packed print sheets. I put them under my arm. "You gave it to me," I said. "And I do thank you. You have been so much help. You should be promoted." I had caught a supervisor looking over in that direction and my pleasant attitude to the girl said that everything was fine.
I left, jubilant. I had a full intelligence survey of the profession. And without a single trace or show of my identoplate.
Heller was going to be bugged and, by my extensive plan, neither he nor anyone else would know it except me. A bugged man is wholly at one's mercy.
There was no bluebottle in sight. But my driver said, "You took long enough!"
"For a creature of impending wealth, you whine too much. Fly up in the sky to some blank spot and hover."
"That's paper. That ain't money. You didn't rob anybody."
"Give it twenty-four hours," I said. "Now get going before I bash your fenders myself!" In the quiet of ten thousand feet above the lanes, I removed my disguise and sorted out my finds.
Professor Gyrant Slahb was my top authority choice. He was probably the dean of cellology in the western, opposite, hemisphere of Voltar. He was retired. He liked to keep his communications blocked from incoming. He had made a packet. The chances of anyone ever being able to contact him were remote.
Now for the bright new graduates. There were many candidates. I was looking for a solitary type who belonged to no clubs and had huge book bills and who had opened an office to an empty waiting room but who had had a brilliant prepractice hospital record. I found him.
He was named Prahd Bittlestiffender and he came from the eastern hemisphere of Voltar. He was twenty-five, unmarried and poor. The chances of him ever having met Professor Gyrant Slahb were nonexistent as Slahb had retired before Prahd got out of kindergarten. There was shortly going to be one cellologist less running around loose.
I fed all but the key tear-offs to the sunlit skies of Government City and ordered my driver to the Provocation Section.
As we skimmed along the brown wave crests of the River Wiel, my driver said, "I ain't gonna accept no counterfeits!" He remembered the last sad times in the Blike Mountains.
I laughed at him. He said, "You're acting strange today, Officer Gris."
"I'm a new man," I said. It did not seem to encourage him. But indeed, I felt like I was floating. All my skills and talents were in free play. Krak had gotten it and Heller was about to get it. They deserved every bit of what was coming and more!
We flew into the tunnel. I bounced up the steps. Raza Torr was his usual, suspicious self. Something in his personality, no doubt. Paranoia?
His hand went into his drawer. Funny habit.
"How are the women treating you?" I said. Anything to ease the tension.
An escort bobbed up but Torr told him, "I'll take care of this one." I led the way, happily and cheerfully. I went immediately to the clothes racks and began to inspect them. Raza Torr seemed quite interested. He made some unsuitable suggestions, holding out a garment used to bury people.
I found the first thing I wanted. It was the overgarment and pants of a type seen on Homeview when they want somebody to look like an old, wise scientist. I chose the proper, loose-flapped hat and then a cane.
I got an ordinary clothes-carrying case and dumped my finds in. Then I went back to the racks and searched through until I found the everyday, casual uniform of Army Intelligence, badges and alclass="underline" it is an ugly color-custard – but it can, because of its cut, look quite smart. It had a dagger hole in the back but not much blood. Nobody would notice. I found the cap. Then I went and got a Grade Thirteen locket, false stones of course, but quite bright cherry red. I dumped these in the case.
I then went back to the clothes racks and got out a common civilian afternoon one-piece and its haberdashery and shoes.
"What the Hells are you doing, Gris?" demanded Raza Torr. "This some new personal murder spree?" I ignored his tone. I was too cheerful. "It's really official business," I said. "Legally illegal as can be. I have an assignment to infiltrate and provoke the Retired Prostitutes Association to strike a blow for Prince Mortiiy over on Calabar."
"You mean you're leaving for Calabar?" He was fingering the clothes as though for quality. He opened the pockets of some of the garments I had chosen. I thought he was seeing if there was any money in them. How wrong I was!
I went over to their makeup section. I got me some false skin, some spare teeth, a lot of wadding, some fake hair, some different colored eye-color shifters and some pats of powder of different shades. I brought those back and threw them in the case. Then I added, from another section, a portable scriber that is used for forging orders in the field.
He was tagging me now. As we went through the weapons section, I didn't even pause. "What?" he said. "No dead bodies?"