noticeable enough to constitute a handicap. It was not thesuperficial nervous system showing through, nor the capillary bloodvessels. The web effect was strikingly regular, almost mathematical inappearance.
As he looked, the translucence faded and his skin switched to normal,the marks disappearing. That was the word, switched. He ought to bethankful for that, he supposed. Somehow he wasn't.
He was out of the autobath and half dressed before the realization cameto him. He knew what the network was, the patterned marks beneath hisskin.
A circuit.
A printed circuit, or, since it was imposed on flesh, possibly tattooed.
A circuit. What did anyone use a circuit for? To compute, to gatherdata, to broadcast, to control. How much of that applied to him, to thebody it was concealed in? The first he could eliminate. Not to compute.As for the rest, he was not certain. It seemed possible that everythingcould be included in the function of the network beneath his skin. Hehadn't been controlled up to now, but that didn't mean control wasn'tthere, quiescent, waiting for the proper time. However, it didn't seemlikely. Human mentality was strong, and a reasonably intact mind wasdifficult to take over.
What else? To gather data and broadcast it. Of that he could be almostpositive. The data came from his nervous system. He suspected where itwas broadcast to--back to the police.
How the circuit on his body gathered data was unknown. The markingsappeared to parallel his central nervous system. It seemed reasonablethat it operated by induction.
That meant it involved chiefly tactile sensations, unless, of course,there were other factors he didn't know about. He felt his foreheadcarefully, his temples, and his skull around his ears. Nothing, but thatdidn't mean that infinitesimal holes hadn't been drilled through hisskull and taps run to the optic and auditory nerves.
It could be done and he wouldn't know about it, couldn't feel it. Thebroadcasting circuits could then be spread over his head, or, for thatmatter, over any part of his body.
If his suppositions were correct, then he was a living, walkingbroadcasting station. Everything he felt, saw or heard was relayed tosome central mechanism which could interpret the signals.
The police.
Cobber had been looking for a spy mechanism, a mechanical device inJadiver's body. He hadn't found it, but it was there, almost impossibleto locate. A surgeon might find it by performing an autopsy, but eventhen he would have to know what to look for.
How Jadiver had been able to find it was a pure puzzle. Obviously, thepolice hadn't been as thorough as they had meant to be. Their mechanismhad somehow gone awry at precisely the time Jadiver was most consciousof his skin. Without the itch, he would never have noticed it.
At least one thing was clear now--the purpose. He'd been boiled intounconsciousness, his skin removed, the circuit put in place, and thenhad the synthetic substance carefully fitted over his body.
His tension increased, for he knew now that he had betrayed Burlingamewithout meaning to--but it was betrayal nonetheless. It wasn't only aquestion of professional ethics; it was how long he would remain alive.Burlingame's survivors, if there were any, would have an excellent ideaof who was responsible.
This thing went with him wherever he went. Did it also sleep when hedid? That wasn't important, really.
He had to try to warn Burlingame.
Even these thoughts might be a mistake. The police might know what hewas thinking. This was one way to determine whether there was such athing as mechanically induced telepathy, but he couldn't work up muchenthusiasm for the experiment.
His own problem was essentially the same as if a mechanical spyingdevice had been planted in him--with one difference. A mechanical partwas a foreign object and could be cut out by any competent surgeonwilling to risk police retaliation. But only those who had installedthis complicated circuit would know how to take it out.
* * * * *
Burlingame didn't answer. It was probably useless trying to tracehim--he very likely had arranged to drop out of sight. He was good atthat. The police hadn't caught up with him in twenty years.
There was Cobber. He'd be elsewhere, setting up a rendezvous to whichBurlingame and the rest could return and hide while their faces andfigures were absorbed into their normal bodies. Cobber would be eventougher to locate.
The only place Burlingame could be found with any degree of certainty,Jadiver reasoned, would be at the scene of the robbery. Jadiver went tothe screen and spent an intensive half hour in front of it. At the endof that time, he had narrowed it down to two society events, one ofwhich would occur in a few hours. He made a decision to cover it andwarn them, if he could. After that, it was up to Burlingame.
Jadiver rubbed his chin; the stubble had to come off. He went to theautobath, but it wouldn't open. A figure in bas-relief appeared on thedoor. The surface had been smooth an instant before.
"Sorry," said the voice of the lifelike, semi-nude girl, "the autobathis out of certain supplies. It won't function properly until these arereplaced."
"Let's have the list," growled Jadiver. He was jumpy.
The bas-relief figure extended a hand with a slip in it. "If I maysuggest, these can be placed on perpetual order to avoid futureinconvenience."
What the future held was unknown. It wasn't likely to include acomfortable existence in a well-furnished apartment. "I'll think aboutit," he grunted.
"If there's any other way I can help you--"
"There isn't," said Jadiver.
The door shivered and the figure snapped back into the memory plasticfrom which it was made. The surface was smooth again.
* * * * *
He went to the screen and punched a code. The counter display flashed onand then was replaced by a handsome neuter face. That face studied him,ascertained his maximum susceptibility, and promptly faded.
The next face was that of a robot harem girl. Sex sells, that was alwaysthe axiom. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked huskily.
"Yes," said Jadiver. "You can get off the screen and let me see somemerchandise."
"We're not allowed to do that."
Jadiver grumbled in defeat. "I want something for my whisk--"
"Just the thing," she said enthusiastically, reaching out of his fieldof vision. The hand came back with a package. "Tear off a capsule, crushit, and apply to your face. It removes whiskers permanently for twodays, and leaves your face as soft and smooth as Martian down."
Jadiver shuddered. "I'd rather be a man than a bird. Do you haveanything that leaves a face feeling like skin?"
The robot harem girl stabbed out frantically, but nothing came to hand.She turned around and went off to search. Jadiver sighed with relief andstarted to scan the shelves. The robot returned before he could make aselection.
"We have nothing like that," she said, crestfallen. "Asteroid alabasteror hydroponic grapes and several other things, but no whiskoff that willleave your face feeling like skin."
"Then order something that will," said Jadiver. "Meanwhile I'll settlefor a face of hydroponic grapes. Two weeks supply will be enough."
The robot complied eagerly. "Anything else? Shampoo?"
Jadiver looked at the list and nodded.
"No need to open the bottle," she rushed on. "Just place in the autobathdispenser and let the machine do the rest. The bottle will dissolve,adding to the secret ingredients. Foams in micro-seconds as proven byactual test, and when you're through, only an expert can tell your hairfrom mink."
"Mink?" he repeated. "Don't think I'd like it. What about raccoon? I'vealways admired the legendary Daniel Boone, alone in the terrestrialwilderness with a single-shot rifle. Sure, make it raccoon."
"I know we have none of that." The clerk was positive.
"Then order it," he snapped. "You don't have to furnish the rifle,though."
She seemed confused. "There is a ten per cent extra charge fornon-standard merchandise."
"All right. Just don't stan
d there arguing."
When the clerk left the screen to place the order, Jadiver hastilyselected what he wanted. He validated the purchases and snapped off thescreen. The merchandise arrived in a few minutes.
He loaded it into the autobath. This time the door opened and thebas-relief figure didn't appear on it. Within a half hour he was readyto leave.
* * * * *
The door was not a door. It was a mirror, three-dimensional. Thedifference to the eye was slight, but since he knew what to expect, itwas not difficult to detect. It was a legitimate piece of staging, butit cost plenty to maintain the illusion. A society event, he supposed,called for such precautions. There must be more inside.
He ignored the