In a way, he realized, Pouin Beryaal had been discourteous in calling the meeting for noonday. The heat was at its worst then; it had been deliberately tactless to force him to travel from his lodgings at that time. But Catton was prepared for rudeness on Morilar. Earthmen were not excessively popular here.
He hailed a cab. It was android-operated, according to the sign on the door. The android, of course, was of the Morilaru type, with dark bluish-purple skin and the vestigial bony spikes on its shoulders. Each race created androids in its own image.
“Take me to the Terran Embassy,” Catton said.
The cab pulled away. It was cool inside; he loosened the throatband of his doublet. Traffic was heavy at this hour, and the trip across town, which had taken less than fifteen minutes in the morning, now lasted nearly three times as long. At length, though, the cab drew up outside the high gates of the Embassy. Catton pulled a couple of Morilaru coins from his pocket and dropped them into the pay-slot. The android automatically released the door-catch and Catton stepped out.
Ten minutes later, he was in his room on the fifth floor of the Terran Embassy, climbing out of his sweat-soaked clothes and heading for the shower. After a quick freshening-up, he stretched out on the lounger and rang Service for something to eat.
He was tired. The Morilaru gravity was about 1.2 that of Earth, and the heat was never-ending. But no one had ever implied he was going on an easy mission.
There were rumors circulating in the galaxy that the three established humanoid races were planning some maneuver that would seriously damage the Terran economy. None of the talebearers could be very specific; no one had any concrete evidence. But the rumor persisted, and the Terran World Government was getting worried.
Coincident with the rumors about an alien plot against Earth had come the request from Morilar for a Terrestrial delegate to a Commission whose job it would be to investigate and control the illegal interstellar traffic in hypnojewels. Catton, specially trained for his job, had been chosen as the delegate—with the additional task of keeping his eyes open and trying to detect some substance behind the rumors of an anti-Terran conspiracy. What better way was there to camouflage a special investigator than as a special investigator—for something else? Catton would be only superficially interested in uncovering the sources of the hypnojewel trade; his real job was to find out what plans the Morilar-Arenadd-Skorg worlds might have for bedeviling Earth.
For they were troubled worlds, despite all their outward signs of calm. It was only ninety years before—2214, by Earth reckoning—that Earthmen had broken out into interstellar space. And now a dozen Terran colony-worlds hung in the sky; Terran traders operated with skill and efficiency on the planets of the older cultures; Terra had won a place as a ranking galactic power. All in ninety years.
Not surprising, then, that Morilar—whose interstellar era was more than a thousand years old—feared Earth. Or that Skorg, which once had been dominant in half the galaxy before the rise of Arenadd, viewed the newcomers with alarm. Nor, for that matter, that the fleshy people of Arenadd, themselves relatively late arrivals in the galactic scheme of things, with only a few hundred years of star travel behind them, should be worried about the rise of a new galactic power.
Perhaps the three worlds schemed some way of throttling the Terran expansion. Which was why Catton had been sent to the outworlds. He was an observer; he was to watch, and see, and possibly to discover what steps the threatened worlds meant to take to maintain their galactic supremacy.
After Catton had refreshed himself and eaten, he turned his attention to the portfolio Pouin Beryaal had given him.
He lifted the metal hasp and stared at the solemn warning on the first page:
NOTICE!
This book is for use by authorized persons only. It is coded to prevent unauthorized persons from obtaining access to its contents. Turning this page without taking the proper precautions will result in instantaneous destruction of the entire volume.
Catton turned the page to look at the words that were meant for his eyes alone. In the margin at the upper left-hand corner of the page was a small pinkish oval patch, about the size of a man’s thumb. As he had been instructed to do, Catton stared at the patch, counting off five seconds. Then he began to read. The code had been keyed in; for the next ten minutes, he could leave that page of the portfolio open without fear of its destruction. A longer look would require him to desensitize the protective patch a second time.
He read with care, pausing each time he turned the page to desensitize the marginal patch. It developed from the reports that the Commission had already uncovered considerable data. Included in the papers he had been given were details on the number of hypnojewels in the galaxy—more than a thousand were known to exist, and many of these had already been located and confiscated. But each year a dozen or more new gems entered the galaxy. The problem was not so much to track down and confiscate those jewels that already were in circulation, as to cut off the pipeline at its beginning.
There were speculations that the jewels originated in the fringes of the galaxy, on one of the worlds populated by non-humanoid beings. Eleven different non-humanoid races had been found to suffer no ill effects as a result of handling the jewels. But any humanoid who stared at one for more than a few seconds found himself drawn inextricably into the hypnotic web.
Catton finished leafing through the collection of transcripts. The situation seemed a genuine one: the aliens were troubled about the spread of this hypnojewel thing, and they had decided to enlist the aid of Earth by inviting an Earthman to join the Commission. There was no actual state of hostility between Earth and the other three galactic powers, of course; there was only a chill incordiality that had led a Terran historian to revive an old term, and dub the present galactic situation a Cold War.
Cold War it was. Terra and her few colonies versus the seventy worlds controlled by the Morilar-Arenadd-Skorg axis. Diplomatic relationships still prevailed, and the worlds still engaged in friendly trade. But there was no telling when some crucial act of hostility might touch off an open war. And the advent of Earth onto the galactic scene had driven the other three worlds into their closest alliance in centuries.
Catton decided to test the effectiveness of the Morilar secrecy precautions. Leafing through the portfolio once again, he selected one page—it contained some unimportant data on budgetary appropriations for the Commission—and ripped it loose from the binding. Carefully, Catton closed the portfolio, and placed the loose page on the table before him, deliberately neglecting to key in the sensitized patch.
He got results in less than thirty seconds. The sheet of paper began to turn brown along the tear; then, almost instantaneously, its entire surface was swept with a wash of blue flame, and within moments nothing but crumpled ash lay on the table. Catton nodded and cleared up the mess. He was going to have trouble carrying on his investigation if all secret Morilaru documents were as proof to spying as this one obviously had been.
Rising, he locked the portfolio away in the privacy-cabinet in his closet, and proceeded to dress, formally, in a stiff tunic of green with gold trim, a wide orange sash, and high polished boots. This evening there would be a reception at the Embassy in his honor.
When he was dressed, Catton locked his room and strolled down the wide, carpet-cushioned corridor of the Embassy’s floor. It was a spacious and attractive building.
The sound of music was in the air—tinkling alien music, played on a strange instrument that produced a plangent tone not unlike that of a harpsichord. Following the music, Catton rounded the bend in the corridor and found himself at the entrance to a drawing-room which was occupied by several people. The music came to an abrupt halt at his arrival.
Catton saw that the people in the room were not all human. There were five: two Morilaru, lean and angular in their tight clothing, and three Terrans. Catton recognized two of the Terrans—Estil, the Ambassador’s eighteen-year-old daughter, and her tutor, an elde
rly woman named Mrs. Larch. The remaining person was a Terran of dignified aspect who wore formal business clothes.
It had been Estil who had been playing, it seemed. She was seated at a wide keyboard connected to a complex stringed instrument of alien design.
“Pardon me,” Catton said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I simply heard music, and—”
“Please be welcome here,” Estil said. She spoke well, but formally; she had the accents of a child who had been raised with care, by a too-devoted governess. Catton had formed that impression the night before, during their brief meeting when he had arrived at the Embassy from the spaceport.
The girl rose from the keyboard and, graciously taking Catton’s hand, led him all the way into the room. “This is Mr. Lloyd Catton, of Earth,” she announced. “He arrived on Morilar last night. He’s—uh—a member of the new Interworld Commission on Crime. Am I right, Mr. Catton?”
“Precisely,” he told her.
She made introductions. “This is Doveril Halligon,” she said. “My music teacher. And his friend, Gonnimor Cleeren.”
“How do you do,” Catton said gravely to the two aliens. They bowed in return.
“I think you know Mrs. Larch,” Estil said. “And this,” she went on, pointing to the somber, middle-aged gentleman in business clothes, “is Mr. Bartlett, a friend of my father’s from Earth.”
Catton and Bartlett shook hands. Catton felt vaguely uncomfortable about the entire little scene. It was more convenient for him to stay at the Embassy than anywhere else on Morilar, but he was not easily at home in the milieu of drawing-room music recitals.
He said a trifle awkwardly, “The music sounded charming from a distance, Miss Seeman. I’d appreciate it if you’d continue playing.”
Estil flushed prettily and returned to the keyboard. Her governess said, “The instrument is known as the gondran. Estil has been studying with Doveril Halligon for two years now. She has become quite proficient.”
Catton stared at the alien music teacher for an instant. Doveril Halligon did not meet the glance. Instead he signaled to Estil, who began to play—falteringly, at first, but gaining in confidence after the first few measures. The piece seemed, to Catton’s untutored ears, to be a difficult one; the keyboard technique was tricky, and the harmonies were strange. He joined politely in the applause when the last tinkling note had died away.
An Embassy android entered the drawing-room bearing a little tray of cool drinks, and a few minutes of sociability followed the end of Estil’s recital. Catton, improvising desperately, managed to keep the conversation going as he discussed musical techniques with the two aliens, while Mrs. Larch and Estil exchanged sentences with Bartlett. Then the groupings broke up. Catton and Estil started across the room toward each other. Suddenly the girl stumbled and began to fall to her knees.
Catton moved forward rapidly, caught the girl, and steadied her on her feet before anyone else could move.
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly,” she said. “Thanks very kindly.” In a lower voice she added, “I have to speak to you alone tonight. It’s very important.”
Chapter Three
There were more than a hundred guests at the reception in Catton’s honor that evening. The list included virtually every Terran of note in Dyelleran. A quartet of Morilaru musicians kept up an endless flow of melody; the punchbowl, spiked with a tawny alien liquor, was never allowed to be empty. Catton did not care much for this sort of formal pomp, but he knew it was essential to his role that he allow himself to be presented to the world as a typical Terran diplomat.
As guest of honor, it was his privilege to claim the first dance with the Ambassador’s daughter. The alien musicians played a fair approximation of a waltz, interpolating just enough of their own chromatic harmonies to destroy any link the waltz tune might have had with ancient Vienna. Estil moved lightly in Catton’s arms. She was a slim girl, gravely attractive, with serious violet-blue eyes and a soft cloud of dark hair.
“You said you wanted to talk to me alone tonight,” Catton said softly as they swung round the floor.
“Yes. I’m in trouble, Mr. Catton. Maybe you can help me.”
“Me? How can I help? I’m a stranger here?”
She nodded. “Perhaps that’s how. Somehow I know I can trust you. I hope you don’t mind listening to me go on like this.”
“I’m always willing to help a damsel in distress. What’s your difficulty, Miss Seeman?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell you about it later. We’ll go out on the balcony to talk. Daddy will think it’s so romantic of us!”
Catton smiled, but within himself he felt uneasy. He hoped the girl was not leading up to something along the line of telling him she had fallen for him at first sight. For one thing, charming though she was, she was only a child, half his age; for another, his profession made romantic entanglements of any sort unwise. But he realized he was probably flattering himself. Estil would not be likely to develop much romantic interest for a craggy-faced man who was almost forty. He wondered what kind of trouble she was in.
The dance came to its end, and Catton escorted the girl across the floor to the table at which her father sat. Ambassador Seeman was a great barrel of a man, immensely tall, hugely broad; his voice was a mellow bass boom. As the Terran World Government’s Ambassador to Morilar, it was his task to keep diplomatic relations between the two worlds on an even keel despite the constant stresses that arose.
“Your daughter dances very well,” Catton said.
Seeman chuckled. “She’s had good tutors. I’ve spared no expense.”
A man wearing the uniform of an officer in the Terran Space Navy approached, said something to Estil, and danced away with her. As soon as the girl was beyond ear-shot, the Ambassador remarked, “She’s come along wonderfully well since her mother died. Become the very image of my wife.”
“How long ago did she die?”
“Twelve years. Almost as soon as we arrived on Morilar. Estil was six, then. She hardly remembers Earth at all now, except as a vague blur.”
“You haven’t been back in all this time?”
“No,” Seeman said. “She’s never shown any interest in returning to Earth. Morilar is her home world, I’m afraid. After all, she’s spent two-thirds of her life here.”
Catton nodded. A woman came up to them; Catton had been introduced to her earlier in the evening, and he dimly recalled that she was the wife of one of the lesser Terran diplomats stationed on Morilar. They made conversation for a while, and then Catton completed the formalities by dancing with her. She chattered on and on about the complexities of life on an alien world—houseboy trouble, the heat, the strange food, all the rest.
The evening dragged along. Some time later, Catton found himself dancing with Estil again; and, at the end of the dance, they strolled out onto the open balcony at the far side of the ballroom. Catton noted with irritation that they were being stared at, and no doubt commented upon, as they left the dance floor.
The night was warm. The sky, speckled with the unfamiliar constellations, was partly veiled with murky clouds. The two bright moons of Morilar hung high overhead. Below them, the city sprawled out toward the horizon.
Estil said, “Will you promise to keep absolutely secret everything I’m going to tell you?”
“That’s a pretty tall order. Suppose you tell me that the sun’s going nova. Should I keep the news to myself?”
Catton regretted his facetiousness instantly. She said, “I mean it. Please be serious.”
“All right. I’m sorry. What do you want to tell me, Estil?”
“I’m in love,” she said simply.
Catton peered out over the balcony. A river wound like a glittering snake through the heart of the city. “Every girl your age should be in love,” he said. “It’s good for the spirit.”
“You’re patronizing me,” she said crisply.
Catton smiled. “I guess I am. Again, I’m sorry. I mean it.
I won’t do it again.”
“Will you hear me out?”
“Go on,” he said.
“Very well. I’m in love with my music teacher. Doveril Halligon. You met him this afternoon in the drawing-room.”
Her quiet words detonated like bombshells. Catton turned pale. He swung round to face her. “But—but he’s a Morilaru! An alien!”
“He’s a person ,” she replied. “A kind, warmhearted person. As good as any Earthman I’ve ever known. Why shouldn’t I love him? He understands me. He loves me.”
Catton moistened his lips. The implications of this thing were explosive. An ambassador’s daughter, in love with an alien? The scandal would be enormous. “All right,” he said calmly. “You’re in love with him. Why tell this to me?”
“I want to go away from here with Doveril. Far away, where no one can find us and break us up. I know, it’s a shocking thing, an Earthgirl falling in love with—with an alien. I can’t help myself. It—just happened that way. I have a little money saved. So does Doveril.”
“And how do I fit into this?” Catton asked.
“You’re here to investigate the hypnojewel racket, aren’t you?”
Catton’s jaw dropped. “Yes. How did you find that out?”
The girl smiled. “Daddy told me. Daddy tells me almost everything I want him to tell me.” She paused. “You’re here to investigate trade in hypnojewels. Well, sometimes, I’ve heard Doveril talking about hypnojewels with his friends. Whispering. This afternoon, when he was here at the Embassy, giving me my music lesson, he brought that friend of his along, Connimor Cleeren. They said a few things. I guess they didn’t think I understood. I heard them mention hypnojewels.”
“Are you sure? But—”
“I’m afraid,” the girl said, trying to keep an adolescent quiver out of her voice. “Doveril doesn’t like to talk much about his past. I’m afraid he may be mixed up in the hypnojewel business, or that he might have been involved in it some time in the past. So what I want you to do for me—if you can—is find out whether he’s in the clear. Can you do that for me?”