Batruni waved a hand. "Never mind that. I will take care of your future if you get me my darling. But to wait all those years—" He seemed ready to blubber again.
"You could put yourself in a trance, couldn't you?"
"And wake up to find those bad Socialists had sto-len all my factories? No, thank you. It is not the time—the doctors tell me I have another seventy-five years at least—but the suspense. It will not be so long for you."
"The Fitzgerald effect," said Hasselborg. "If you're not back from Aleppo when I shove off from London, I'll leave a report for you. Mah salami!"
Viagens Interplanetarias wired back a list of names from Barcelona, and the name of Julnar Batruni turned up on the list for the Jurud, bound for Pluto with four other Londoners in addition to other passengers. Of the Londoners, one was a well-known spinster sociologist, two a minor World Federation official and his wife, and the remaining one a radio announcer named Anthony Fallon.
Hasselborg trotted around to the BBC offices, where he unearthed the Personnel Director and asked about Fallon. He learned that Fallon was in his early thirties—a little younger than Hasselborg himself—a native of London, married, with a varied background as a World Police trooper, a cameraman on a scientific expedition to Greenland, a hippopotamus-farmer, an actor, a professional cricket player, and other jobs. No, BBC had no notion where he was now. The blighter had simply called Personnel one fine day, told him he was resigning, and walked out. (That was two days before the Jurud left Barcelona.) And really you know, this is England, where a chap can go where he pleases without some copper checking up on him.
Finding the Director of Personnel stuffy, Hasselborg inquired among the staff, adding details to his picture of Fallon. The man, it transpired, had cut something of a swath among the female help; he'd apparently led not a double but a quadruple or quintuple life. The men liked his tall tales without altogether believing them; on the other hand they thought him a bitfof a cad and a trouble maker. Good thing he'd gone. (These uninhibited guys have all the fun, thought Hasselborg sourly.)
Hasselborg wrote up his visit on his shorthand pad and went to Fallon's address, which turned out to be an ordinary Kensington flat. A pretty blonde girl opened the door. "Yes?"
Hasselborg got a jolt—the girl looked like his lost Marion. "Are you Mrs. Fallon?"
"Why, yes. What can I—"
"My name's Hasselborg," he said, forcing what was meant for a disarming grin. "May I ask you a few questions about Mr. Fallon?"
"I suppose—but who are you really?"
Hasselborg, thinking that the direct approach would work here as well as any, identified himself. The strong Briticism of her speech made him almost forget her resemblance to his ex-wife. The girl was of medium height, sturdily built, with substantial ankles, wide cheekbones, rather flat features, and a vivid pink-blue-and-gold coloring.
After some hesitation, she asked him in. Most people did, since they were more thrilled than resentful over being investigated by one of those fabulous creatures, a real sleuth. The only trouble was to keep them on the subject; they wanted to know about your romantic adventures and wouldn't believe you when you assured them that investigation was a dull and sordid trade, which brought you into contact with a singularly unlikable lot of people.
She said: "No, I've no idea where Tony went. He just told me he was going on a trip. Since he'd done that before, I didn't worry for the first week or two, and then I learned he'd quit his job."
"Did you ever suspect him of—uh—playing around?"
She smiled wryly. "I'm sure he did. You know, tales of how he had to stay late for spot broadcasts, which later turned out never to have taken place."
"Do anything about it?"
"I asked him, but he only flew into a temper. Tony's a very peculiar man."
"He must be, to leave a girl like you—"
"Oh," she smiled deprecatingly. "I'm afraid I bored him. I wanted the usual things, you know—a real home and lots of children."
"What did you intend to do when he went this time?"
"I hadn't decided. I can't help liking him in a way, and he was wonderful when we first—"
"I understand. Did he ever mention a Syrian girl, Julnar Batruni?"
"No; he was cagey. You think he went with her?"
Hasselborg nodded.
"Where to? America?"
"Farther than that, Mrs. Fallon. Off Earth."
"You mean millions and millions—Oh. Then I suppose I shan't see him again. I don't know whether to be relieved—"
Hasselborg said: "I'm trying to find Miss Batruni and, if possible, bring her back. Want me to try to fetch your man, too?" (He found himself, he couldn't imagine why, hoping she'd say no.)
"Why… this is all so unexpected. I'd have to think—" Her voice trailed off again.
"Mind if I take down some data?" The shorthand pad appeared. "What was your maiden name?"
"Alexandra Garshin. Born in Novgorod, 2103. I've lived in London most of my life, though."
Hasselborg grinned, "Tony's the only Cockney in the case." After a few more questions he said: "While I don't usually mix business with pleasure, it's nearly dinner time, and I think we could pursue the subject better over a couple of reindeer steaks. What say?"
"Oh! Thanks, but I couldn't impose on you—"
"Come on! Old man Batruni'll be paying for it." Hasselborg looked studiedly friendly and harmless, hoping that his expression would not seem to be to the unprejudiced observer like that of a hungry wolf. Or at least a coyote. *
She thought, then said: "I'll come; but if you ever meet my parents, Mr. Hess… Hass—"
"Vic."
"Mr. Hasselborg, don't say I went out with you on such short acquaintance."
"Cocktail?" he said.
"Thank you, a blackjack."
"One blackjack and a glass of soda water," he told the waiter.
she raised eyebrows. "Teetotaler?"
He smiled regretfully. "No. Narasimachar treatment."
"You poor man! You mean you're really conditioned so a good drink makes you gag?"
He nodded. "Sad, too, because I used to like the stuff. Too well, that was the trouble, if you follow me." He wouldn't go into the story of his moral collapse after Marion— "When I get a case where I've got to drink with the boys for professional reasons,* boy, then the going is rugged. But let's talk about you. Are you fixed for support while I chase your errant spouse beyond the cranky comets and behind the mystic moons?" He washed down a couple of pills with his soda water.
"Don't worry. I've got a promise of a job, and if the worst came to the worst I could go back to my parents—if I could stand hearing them say 'I told you so.'"
The physician laid down his last hypodermic and said: "Really, that's all I can think of." He counted them off on his fingers. "Tetanus, typhus, typhoid, small pox, yellow fever, bubonic, pneumonic, malaria. It's a wonder you're not dead from all the shots you've had lately. Maybe you'd like to be shot for whooping cough?"
Hasselborg met the doctor's gaze squarely, although he guessed that the word in the doctor's mind was "hypochondriac."
"Thanks, I've had it. Got those prescriptions? Wish I could take time to have my appendix jerked."
"Is something wrong with your appendix?"
"No, but I don't like wandering around some strange planet with one inside me that might go wrong. For all I know, I'm going some place where, when you get sick, they chop off a finger to let out the evil spirits. And I hope my teeth hold out; just had 'em checked."