“Just give the machine the money. Half a unit per ticket, that’s all.”
Harris found a bill in his pocket and thrust it forward. A ticket came clicking back at him. He seized it and rushed into the darkness of the theater.
“Your change, Major!” someone called from behind. But he kept going.
He found a seat. It was soft and warm and body-hugging, and he settled down into it as though crawling back into the womb. He looked up, saw the glowing screen filling a great arch in front of him and overhead, saw figures moving, heard words being uttered.
It meant nothing at all.
He sat there rigid with panic, watching the meaningless three-dimensional images move about. Gradually the unreasoning blind fear receded. Words again made sense to him. He saw that a kind of story was being acted out. It was a meaningless story, full of murder and brawling, and he scarcely cared what was being shown, but imperceptibly he slipped into the story until he was following it raptly.
His body relaxed. The tension-poisons leached out of him as the hours passed. The first solido ended, and a voice from the seatback in front of him let him know that he could have refreshments in his seat by putting coins into various slots. He ignored the opportunity.
After a while, a second sollie began. This one was even more inane than the first, but Harris watched it interestedly enough, fascinated by the glowing vitality of the vivid images, which seemed real enough to touch. But as hour after hour slipped by, his calm reasserted itself, and the rational part of his mind became uppermost.
You certainly bungled that one, he told himself in bitter contempt. Carver will know you tried to kill him, and he’ll come after you. Or ambush you when you dont expect it. You’ve muffed your chance.
He expected to hear some chiding word from the mutant telepath. But there was only silence, as there had been since the moment in the alley when he had been warned that this was his best chance to kill. Since then, nothing—as though he was no longer considered worthy of contacting.
Harris rose from his seat. Stony-faced, he walked out of the theater, into the night.
It was past midnight now. The streets were fairly quiet. He made his way carefully up the street to the helitaxi ramp.
“Spaceways Hotel,” he said.
He settled back for the long trip. When he left the ramp at his destination and crossed into the hotel, he looked about warily in all directions.
The communicator signal in his body had not rasped once since he had left Carver in the alleyway. That was suspicious. Why hadn’t Carver tried to contact him for an explanation, Harris wondered? Did he simply plan to close in and eliminate him without a word?
Harris sealed his room door. No one would enter without his knowledge now.
He took down his bottle of Darruui wine. It was nearly half empty, now. He had been too liberal with it the night before. Hand shaking a little, he measured out a small quantity, and sipped it as though it were the elixir of life itself.
His communicator rasped.
Tensely, he activated it. It was Carver.
“Where did you go?” Carver demanded hotly. “What happened?”
“I was frightened.”
“Frightened? Is that a word for a Servant of the Spirit to use? Tell me what happened?”
“You passed out,” Harris improvised. “The robot carried you to the alleyway. I thought you had been poisoned or something, that the Medlins were closing in. So I thought the best thing was for me to escape.”
“And leave me there?”
“It would have done Darruu no good for both of us to be captured or killed,” Harris pointed out. He was relaxing rapidly, now. Carver did not seem to suspect the real cause of his fainting spell. Unless, of course, he was simply playing a little game.
“Where are you now?” Carver asked.
“At my hotel room.”
“Come to headquarters immediately.”
“At this hour?” Harris asked.
“Come to headquarters and stop grumbling,” Carver said. “Your behavior has been very strange, Major Harris. Very strange indeed.”
“I’ve killed five Medlins tonight,” Harris said. “Can’t I have some rest?”
“We’ll expect you within the hour,” Carver said, and broke the contact.
Harris rested his head in his hands. He felt groggy. He had done too much in the past few days, covered too much ground. He simply wanted to rest… to rest…
But there was no rest for him. Warily, he dragged himself to his feet. The thought of travelling far across the city to that weatherbeaten ancient building filled him with foreboding. There was the nagging feeling that he was going to his death, that he would perish in a dry, dusty room of some rotting building in a decayed part of the city.
He rode downstairs, shambled out of the gravshaft like a walking corpse. It seemed to him that he had spent this entire week climbing in and out of helitaxis, jaunting off to one end of the city or another. Feeling frayed and edgy, he signalled to the concierge to get him a helitaxi.
A figure came up out of nowhere and whispered softly, “You didn’t succeed, did you?”
He whirled, half expecting an assassin’s blow.
“Beth!”
She smiled. She had changed her clothes again, into her more seductive garb, and she was the incredibly lovely creature he had seen on his first day on Earth. He looked at her now, and his eyes met hers, and he ran through some of her memories.
Redness came to his cheeks. He was in possession of her personality, he knew the most intimate secrets of her soul. He could not bear to look her in the eye.
“The gun was in your hand,” she said. “What happened then?”
“I lost my nerve. I wasn’t ready.”
“Perhaps we rushed you too fast.”
“Perhaps.”
A bellhop came up to him. “Helitaxi’s waiting for you at the ramp, Major.”
Harris nodded and gave the boy a coin. Beth said, “Where are you going now?”
“Out to see Carver. He’s sent for me.”
“Where?”
“Darruui headquarters. Way out in the slums.”
“You’re armed?”
“Of course.”
“They’re going to try to kill you, Abner. They’ve come to suspect your loyalty. But first they have to get you by surprise. The subsonic in your hip protects you against an attack. No one can get closer than forty feet to you against your will. So they’re going to ambush you. I thought you’d like to know.”
He nodded. “I figured as much.”
“One more thing,” she said. “An important thing.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve intercepted a message. A dozen more Darruui agents are on their way to Earth. They’ll be arriving in staggered waves over the next two months.”
“So?”
“Our task becomes harder. We’ve got to catch them as they arrive—to root them out. We mustn’t let them take hold here. We can make a beginning tonight, though. If you will help us.”
“I’ll try,” he said.
She took his hand, held it for a moment, squeezed it. He gripped it tightly in return. It was no longer revolting for him to think that beneath the soft pink skin lay the pebbled rugosity of a Medlin pelt. He had seen through to the essential core of her, and he could no longer hate her.
“Be careful,” she murmured. “We’re counting on you. When it’s all over, come to our headquarters. We’ll be waiting for you there.”
“Beth…”
But it was too late. She had slipped away, as quickly as she had come. He felt a sudden fierce throbbing beneath his breastbone. The Medlins had not given up on him, he thought. They were not disgusted by his act of cowardice, by his failure to kill Carver when he had had the chance. They understood—Beth understood, at least—that such conversions as his did not happen in a moment, that he had to grope and feel his way toward the light in a twisting, zigzag course.