Much of “Korf’s” hair was also fake, of course, but Brazil wore a fair amount of his own, stringy black, underneath. He trimmed it short with a set of clippers, then carefully shaved a large part of his body. Now actor’s cream to smooth his natural wrinkles and ruddy complexion, and to darken it. A professional actor’s cosmetics case aided him as he worked methodically, transforming himself into someone who resembled him very little. He couldn’t hide the Roman nose, of course, but he could smooth it out and flare the nostrils slightly so that it looked quite different. Finally the wig, which he’d paid a fortune for over two centuries before. More work, then the special clothing. He was a very small man, which aided this particular disguise. In his emergency kit he carried five identities. His actor’s kit could produce variants.
All of his outfits were reversible to black; that made it handy, although a white coat would have been nice out there right now. Well, so be it.
After over an hour of painstaking work he stood and studied himself in the mirror. Perfect. But he had no matching heavy coat for the fierce wintry weather outside; he would be very cold and very uncomfortable for a while.
Although this was his best disguise he had never liked it; still, he did enjoy the challenge. When you’ve been around familiar places long enough you need a way to get away, to be other people, talk to people you don’t dare be seen talking to—and duck people who want to see you, as now.
He had to make himself up to resemble his description in the fake ID papers he carried. On most planets they’d be good enough to get him in and out without a second glance but customs and immigration at the planet’s only port of entry would have no record of his arrival. On a larger human world that would make little difference, but here it would provoke an inquisition.
He gave the disguise a last look, then walked to the window. God, it looked cold out there! He raised it, not without difficulty for he was trying to be quiet. Barely large enough to get through, but it would do, he decided. The blast of icy air stung him; he hated being so uncomfortable, but he loved the challenge. Almost as an afterthought he went over and programmed some Rhone music so that it would shut off in fifteen minutes, then put in a wake-up call for the next morning with the desk. Just so, he decided, just so.
Taking a clear gel from a small jar he rubbed it onto his hands, took a deep breath, went out the window, positioned himself, and, with the gel’s aid, used his hands as suction cups to carry him down the thirty meters of brick wall to the alley below. Once on the ground he spotted the rear entrance, entered, allowed himself a few moments to thaw out and to roll up and discard the gel, then strolled openly down the corridor toward the lobby.
It was getting very late now, but, as he suspected, the human lounge was still filled with people, most relaxing with pleasure drugs or social drinking, a little dancing—all the things an alien lifeform might do for companionship on awinter’s eve in a strange place.
There was a cloakroom, conveniently unguarded. Who’d bother to steal a human-fitted coat here? He went there, selected one that fit both the disguise and his body, coolly put it on, returned to the lobby and with a nod to the front desk walked through the front door into the wintry weather. When no alarms flashed, no yells arose behind him, and no noticeable shadows materialized, he relaxed a little and began to whistle a little time. This was getting to be fun.
The sun was coming up; it had been a quiet if chilly night for the crewmen watching the warehouseand the Hotel Pioneer. All would swear that none of them had been observed and that, so far as they knew Korf had slept the night away.
One of the Rhone shadows down the hall from Room 404-A jumped at a distant sound and realized that he’d been dozing. He looked down the hall as the elevator, a huge cage built with centaurs in mind, came up to a stop and the door slid back. A single person got out and walked down the hall. It appeared to be a young and pretty woman, dressed fit to kill, her walk an open invitation on a hundred worlds. She brushed back long brown hair and took out a small pad, consulted it, then started checking the numbers on the rooms until she reached 404-A. That perked up the watch, both the man at the end of the hall and the others hiding in nearby rooms. She knocked and there seemed to be an answer from inside, then there was some fumbling and the door opened slightly. She pushed on it and strode in, closing the door quickly behind her.
“I’ll be damned,” snapped a tinny voice in the guard’s ear. “I thought he was a holy man or some-thin’.”
“You never know,” another cracked. “Now that’s my kind o’ religion!”
The men would have been startled to discover that room 404-A held but a single occupant. The woman kicked off shoes and removed her wig and some plas-tine body molding but did not bother to get rid of the entire disguise. It was already dawn and Nathan Brazil wanted some sleep before he had to become Rabbi Korf again; he flopped on the bed and drifted off almost instantly. A slight smile lingered on his face at the thought that, should his shadows check the room after he left tomorrow, they’d get a hell of a shock from the case of the disappearing woman.
At the Warehouse—Noon
“He left about an hour ago,” the radio told them. “Tolga and Drur are on him. We still haven’t figured out the girl, though.”
Mavra looked grim. “I think I can guess,” she said dryly and signed off.
“The girl was Brazil, then?”
She nodded. “Of course, Marquoz. Simple thing, really, particularly with all his experience.”
“But how did he get out of that room?” the head Olympian wanted to know. “You said you had people watching it!”
Mavra shook her head, feeling a little stupid. “I’ve stolen millions from tougher places using any number of methods he could have used. Damn! My thinking’s rusty! I’ve depended on Obie too much! And he actually thumbed his nose at us by walking straight up to the room with a little petty ventriloquism and an unlatched door!”
“You know what this means,” Marquoz said apprehensively.
She nodded. “Yeah. He’s on to us.”
“And he hasn’t called, which means he’s going to try and make a break for it somehow,” the Chugach added. “I think we’re in big trouble unless we put the snatch on him now.”
Mavra thought furiously for a moment. “I don’t know. It’s broad daylight and so far we’ve only seen him in places that are crowded. He could call the cops to complain he was being followed or something and they could escort him right back onto his ship!”
“And what if he does?” the Olympian leader demanded. “What can we do then?”
“Call in Obie and kidnap the whole goddamn two and a half kilometers of it,” Mavra snapped angrily. She wasn’t mad at Brazil—in fact, it restored her faith in him and his legend—but, rather, at herself for being taken in so. At one time she had been the greatest thief in the history of the Com, and it was galling to be taken in this way.
They were still debating the mess when the electronic buzzer echoed through the empty warehouse. As they were yelling at each other, it was a moment before the meaning of the sound penetrated, then all fell silent suddenly.
The phone was ringing.
Mavra glanced over at a female Rhone crewmem-ber and nodded. The Rhone shrugged and walked to the phone, which lay on the floor where it’d been placed as the only real furnishing. No videophones on Meouit, at least.
On the fifth buzz the woman picked up the transceiver and said, “Durkh Shipping Corporation.”