And should he now go back and tell Raige that Lang was in her territory? If he did, he would have to admit that he had infringed the trust she placed in him by spying beyond the end of the corridor he was permitted to visit.
His debate with himself lasted only a few tenths of a second, and ended in a way which surprised him. He started out along this other corridor toward the intersection across which Lang had passed, and when he came to the comer, he went the way Lang had gone.
But there was no sign of Lang now. Nor of anyone else. Only a thin humming in the air, at the edge of hearing, and the reddish light and the walls with plain doors set in them at irregular intervals.
Feeling oddly let-down, Vykor stopped. He had been screwing up his courage for a lengthy pursuit through forbidden territory; now he had no one to follow and might as well turn back right away. He stood to gain nothing much by continuing when the corridors were alike, and he risked being unable to find the elevator which would take him back to the public sectors.
Lang must have gone into one of these rooms, though. The recognition startled him. Of course he must! This passage was cut off at the end by a blank bulkhead, not by yet another cross-running corridor.
Vykor crept forward cautiously. There were five doors— two on the left, three on the right—between him and the end wall. He listened at the first one. Nothing. On the other side, nothing. But behind the third door, there was a queer rising and falling sound, clear in timbre, like a reed pipe, with a musical quality about it. It wasn’t music, though; it was too metronomically regular for that. Besides, at one time or another aboard ship or here at Waystation Vykor had learned to recognize the musical conventions of all the peoples of the Arm.
It couldn’t perhaps be the music native to wherever Lang hailed from? The thought struck him in passing but was instantly dismissed. Would Lang have ventured into this area, occupied a cabin for himself, and calmly have begun to amuse himself with music, within a few hours of his arrival?
He went on to the next cabin. Silence again. And then at the fourth, the source of the humming he had sensed rather than heard for some distance. There was machinery in there, probably something very heavy and very accurately machined revolving at a high enough speed to engender disturbances in the air.
The last door again seemed to have no sound behind it. He had lifted his head and stepped back when it was suddenly slid aside, and a Glaithe officer in uniform was looking at him in amazement. Vykor’s heart sank.
"What are you up to?” the officer interrogated, not seeming to be very angry. “What’s a Majko doing walking round here, anyway? Your sector is clear over the other side of Waystation, young man!”
A bright light dawned in Vykor’s mind. Was the mystery no more than a misunderstanding? Was this secret, isolated area no more than the Glaithe’s private section of Waystation, access to which was shrouded in obscurity only because the Glaithes didn’t want strangers intruding on their living quarters? It seemed possible, and if it was in fact that simple, he had not committed as serious an offense as he had feared. His spirits rose again.
He said humbly, "Noble sir, I have been delivering special dispatches to your distinguished Captain Raige. While I was waiting for my elevator, I saw a stranger pass who came on my ship. He claimed never to have been to Waystation before, but how could he have got into this area without knowing the secret?”
The officer pondered. He was a little taller than Raige, but still as much smaller than Vykor as Vykor was smaller than the Pag officers. There was something almost doll-like about this man.
“And since Raige seems interested in this stranger,” Vykor went on after a pause, reinforcing his story, “I thought I would follow him. But he has disappeared—into one of the cabins along this corridor. There is nowhere else he could have gone. If he is here by authority and invitation, I unreservedly apologize, but I had thought to do a service—”
“In one of these cabins? One of these five?” The officer gestured. “Then we can settle the matter quickly enough.”
He stepped rapidly to the cabin next to that from which he had himself come out. He shot the door back. “No one,” he said. At the next one, “No one.”
Vykor watched in growing dismay as the officer convinced himself that all five of the cabins were empty, and none of them had alternative exits. He came back with a shake of his head and a smile.
“I don’t see how your story could be true, young man,” he said. “Therefore we had better go together to see Captain Raige.”
He gestured to Vykor to precede him, and Vykor did so, depressed. To have forfeited his right to special trust and to have gained nothing! It was galling and humiliating; it was worse still when he had to stand, hanging his head, before Captain Raige’s inscrutable smile and confirm what his companion reported.
“Yes, Indie,” she said at length. “Vykor was indeed down here at my request, and I am very much interested in this stranger, Lang.” She switched her gaze to Vykor. “What exacdy did Lang do, then?”
Vykor told her.
"It was the end of this corridor here, outside this cabin, that he walked across and where you saw him?”
Vykor bit his lip and shook his head. "I—I had a fit of curiosity,” he confessed, feeling the blood mount to his cheeks.
“Well, let me dispel that if it hasn’t been satisfied,” Raige said placidly. “This is our home, Vykor—the Glaithe staff’s private section of Waystation. We like to keep it to ourselves, so we don’t advertise its existence, and in fact on the maps we publish we camouflage its whereabouts by distorting the scale here and there. I should have thought to tell you in the beginning.”
“And you invited Lang down here, I suppose?” Vykor said in a gloomy voice.
"No,” said Raige, shaking her head, and a look of wonder spread across her face. “No, no one would have done that. If Lang really was here—”
“He was!” insisted Vykor.
"Then he is no stranger here, and has lied to us. Indie, we must know why!”
VI
Officially, Ferenc was on furlough. He was unmarried and had no dependents; his rank was high enough to convince onlookers that he had money to pour out on a trip to Waystation. He had been there before, moreover, as part of the permanent staff the Cathrodynes kept in their allotted sector of the station to handle trade disputes, prisoner repatriation and similar matters that were traditionally conducted on the neutral ground of Waystation.
It was therefore logical that he should go direct to the Cathrodyne section on his arrival, instead of setting out at once on the tourist circuit.
He had no baggage, of course; that would have been delivered by now through automatic chutes direct from the ship. He had the check number of the cabin to which it had gone. Anywhere on Waystation was within an hour’s travel of anywhere else, and aside from mere physical propinquity it was a matter of indifference to visitors where they were accommodated.
He hardly bothered to think about the route he was taking; he had become familiar, during his tour here, with the layout of the entire station. And his mind was far too full of other matters.
Finally, having dropped ten levels and taken a conveyer chair across another two, he was in the Cathrodyne section. Almost. at once, when he stepped from the elevator, he could sense the difference between his surroundings here and the calm, Glaithe-directed reception areas. Here the very atmosphere seemed to be wound up, tightly charged, tensed and poised for action.
A new snap in his walk, he strode down passages and into anterooms, presenting credentials. Three minutes saw him in the presence of the man he had asked for: General Marshal Temmis, the chief of staff, a bald man whose build was beginning to decay, but who still kept his shiny-domed head at an alert angle on his pile of double chins.
“Sit down, Ferenc—glad to see you here again,” Temmis said, frowning. “You came in on the same ship as the Iquida woman, didn’t you?”
“That’s correct. I half expected to find you were over at th
e prison quarters, sir.”
“And let the Glaithes feel they had touched us where it hurt?” Temmis gave a short, harsh laugh. “I let a junior subaltern deal with that one—demoted a colonel for the job and gave him a youthpack mask to make him look about twenty.”
Ferenc gave an appreciative and respectful grin. That was the sort of ingenuity he approved.
“Of course, I’m not denying it was a painful business, the whole thing,” Temmis pursued. “But it was meant as a flea- bite—the Glaithes planned it that way—and it’s undignified to be seen scratching oneself in public. There are far bigger things on hand.”
“So I assumed, sir, when I received my assignment. And if you’ll forgive the remark, I’ve already noticed more dangerous matters than the Iquida affair.”
“How so?” Temmis leaned back in his big chair.
Ferenc mentioned Dardaino first, and Temmis shook his head. “Disregard him; he was hand-picked. He’s as ineffective as they come. There are a couple of thousand Lubarrians here who’ve more or less escaped from our jurisdiction, thanks to Glaithe protection, who daren’t go home because they know very well what’s waiting for them if they do. Dardaino’s job is to let us know what’s going on among them, and he’ll take care of it excellently. He doesn’t give a hoot about anything except his personal comforts, and he depends on our say-so for all of those.”
“The logic behind the choice, sir, is obscure,” Ferenc answered stiffly. “But I yield, of course, to your judgment. More dangerous than Dardaino, certainly, is the archeologist, Ligmer, whose head appears to be full of subversive notions and who told me he will be working in direct contact with a Pag during his stay here.”
“Yes, on this point I’m inclined to agree.” Temmis put his fingertips together and glared at them. “It’s part of a concerted plan, though, and it’s not for me to object to the High Council’s choice of operatives.
“As you are certainly aware, the detailed study of Waystation is a prime objective of all our work here. Much of the station is unknown except to the Glaithes. We’ve succeeded in undertaking a program of measurement and study in order to determine the accuracy of the maps issued by the Glaithes. And there’s where you come in.
“I don’t have to tell you that this is confidential, by the way.
"What it amounts to is this: The maps are ingeniously and subtly distorted. There are whole volumes unaccounted for. They may be service areas, pure and simple: gravity ducts, ventilation pipes, heating, lighting, power and so on. They may not. We have to tread warily here.
“It’s fairly certain that the Pags also suspect this. Fortunately for us, they have published claims to know more about Waystation than the Glaithes do—this is all part of their propaganda, of course. We hope that this handicap will give us a sufficient lead to allow us to prepare adequate plans of the station—and these will be indispensable in the takeover.”
It was years since Ferenc had heard that phrase: “the take-over”! It had been common currency when he was a cadet—the great day when a Cathrodyne staff instead of the ineffectual Glaithes would rule Waystation. But adolescent enthusiasm had given way to adult cynicism; he had scarcely even thought of the possibility that take-over day might occur within his own lifetime. To hear the phrase now on the lips of the chief of staff was a shock.
Greatly daring, he ventured, “Take-over is now definitely envisaged, then?”
“It’s never been lost sight of,” snapped Temmis. “Merely postponed owing to administrative difficulties.”
“That’s wonderful, sir. I never disbelieved it, naturally—”
“Well, stop sounding as though it was news, then,” said Temmis with heavy irony, and Ferenc bit his lip, aware of having made a serious error.
“All right,” went on Temmis after a pause. He picked up a document from the table before him and ran his eye down it with a critical expression. “I’ll look into what you say about Ligmer, but I doubt if there’s anything we can do, and you can be sure he’ll be pulled out in short order if he does show signs of falling under Pag influence. These other people who came in with you, now: How about the Pag officer?”
“A typical bitch,” said Ferenc, with slightly more force than he intended. Temmis’ baldness extended to his eyebrows, but he raised the patch of skin where the eyebrows would have grown.
“You sound as though she got at you,” he commented.
“I’m afraid I can’t deny it, sir. Her arrogance was uncalled for. I intend to ask permission to run into her by accident during my stay, and have it out with her in a private wrestling room.”
“Permission withheld, Ferenc. I understand your urge, but don’t lose sight of the fact that Pag women are nonetheless women, and fighting women is hardly a dignified undertaking. What’s more, one part of your job during this visit is to get acquainted on a friendly basis with a Pag.”
“What?” Ferenc jerked forward in his seat, his mouth falling open. “You—you can’t be serious, sir!”
“Ferenc, something seems to have happened to you since you left the staff here. When I knew you before you were a levelheaded sort of person, and sufficiently reliable. Now you seem to have degenerated into the kind of excitable hothead who flunks cadet school. Do you imagine that I habitually make jokes about serious matters?”
“No, sir,” Ferenc said miserably.
Temmis gave him a stone-hard glare. “Then I’m perfectly serious, am I not? And a moment’s cool thought would have spared you such an idiotic remark!” He selected a sealed package from a tray at one side of his table. “Take this— it’s your detailed instructions. Go away and read them carefully. You’ve got civilian dress, I suppose, as well as your uniforms?” he added as an afterthought.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t let me see you in uniform again before you leave, then; it’s out of keeping with the character we want you to present. You’re here to see a few old friends on the staff, which you will do. Over the course of a few days you’ll lose interest in this, because—so you’ll say if people ask you—you find us stuffier and less likeable than you remembered. You’ll drift into a round of amusements. Keep your head! We think—in fact we’re fairly certain—that half a dozen Pag women here on the station have been relenting toward Glaithe staff and even to Majkos and Lubarrians. Because they are as inflexible as ever toward the Alchmids, there must be an ulterior motive. We want to know what they’re after. It would be bad for morale to have one of the regular staff associating with a Pag—therefore it’s your job. .You’re big enough not to be ridiculously small by Pag standards; you’re tough enough to wrestle your way out of tight comers if you have to—and the odds in favour are good—and on top of it, you are alleged to have an outstanding record.” Temmis’ eyes transfixed Ferenc like a pin securing a butterfly. “Go ahead and prove it.”
Ferenc took the sealed package of orders in his left hand and got smartly to his feet. “Yes, sir,” he said, and delivered a salute he felt would have pleased his cadet school drill- master.
“Man alive, Ferenc, where do you think you’re going?” Temmis bawled. "Did I dismiss you yet? Sit down again! Quick! I want to know about this last passenger you came in with—a man called Lang.”
“He’s out of eye-range,” said Ferenc, sweating as he sat down again, trying to subdue his fury (which was more against himself than Temmis). "Where exactly he does come from, I was unable to find out in spite of persistent inquiries, both indirectly from himself and directly from the crewmen who might have pieced two and two together to give me a line on him.”
“Very disappointing, Ferenc. How long was the trip? Ten days? Twelve? and you did not succeed in establishing his origin?”
“He is a skilled practitioner in verbal camouflage,” said Ferenc with sudden stubbornness. “I had no opportunity to observe him in unguarded situations; there was always a third party present, and Lang’s ability to turn the subject of conversation without making it obvious suggests that he has had consider
able experience with the theory of committees and related disciplines. I did, however, establish that he is from further in-galaxy than Etra.”
“That’s in eye-range, so the deduction is not remarkable.” Temmis swung his chair half round and looked at the map hanging on the wall at his right. It showed the Arm—the galactic prominence of nine suns scattered along a line of some twenty-eight light-years, nothing beyond the end of the line until a small companion cluster too far away for man to reach. Etra was thirty systems in-galaxy from the root of the Arm, as shipping lines went. Further than people from the Arm systems cared to venture. What was the point? There were problems enough for one lifetime along the Arm.
“And something else, too,” frowned Temmis. “It costs to travel. What does he use for money? I suppose he spent a while on Cathrodyne before he came out aboard your vessel. I should have thought that the arrival of someone out of eye- range would have rated at least a few moments in at least one news bulletin.”
"He doesn’t advertise the fact that he’s so far from home.” “But even you found it out,” said Temmis, heavily sarcastic. “A reporter might be expected to discover it also. Is he thinking of going on beyond Waystation—to Glai, or the Pag systems?”
“He didn't voice any intention of going on at all,” Ferenc said. “He seemed merely to want to see Waystation; he’d heard rumors of it as far away as Etra, and wanted to visit it for himself. I don’t see him being permitted to visit Pagr, even if he wants to.”
“True. All right, Ferenc, you’ve been here long enough. Go and say hello to your former colleagues, but be quick about it, and then get to your quarters and memorize your instructions. Dismissed!”
But the first thing Ferenc did on reaching his cabin was not to read his instructions. It was comprehensively to curse every Pag, male as well as female, here or on Pagr, into the blackest depths of intergalactic space.
After that, he felt better.
VII