Chapter 9 of D-99 by H.B. Fife. This LibriVox recording is in public domain. In the library between Smith's corner office and the conference room that had joined the communications center, Westerville sat and watched Leidman pour over a technical report in the blue binding of the Department of Interstellar Relations. A half a dozen other volumes, old and new, technical and diplomatic, were scattered about the table between them. The youth caught himself running a hand through his hair in Smith's usual manner and stopped, appalled. He judged, after due reflection, that it might be worse. He could have picked up some of Leidman's peculiarities instead. Probably, he told himself, he ought to show some better sense and imitate the swabity of parish if he had to adopt the manners of anyone in the department. Unfortunately, he did not like parish very well, even when he was not engaged in being actively jealous of the man. Some day, Willie, he mused, you'll snap too. When you do, it would be just your style to take after this massive beef in front of you. Immediately, he was ashamed of the thought. Leidman had been, in his way, nicer to him than anyone else. Moreover, he was far from being a massive beef. Westerville recalled the sight of Leidman on an open beach, where he seemed more at ease than anywhere else. The man kept himself hard-muscled and trim. Despite the gaunt look that sometimes crossed his features, he was probably on the low side of 30, so he's still quick as well as strong, thought Westerville. If he does go for the door the way Joe predicts, Willie my boy, you'd be sure to get out of the way. In theory, he was supposed to be helping Leidman research some problems Smith had thought up. So far, he had read one short article which had bored the ex-spacer and twice gone to the files for case folders. He was very well aware that the real idea was to have someone with Leidman constantly. For this reason, he was prepared further to assume the courtesy of answering any interrupting phone calls. He was determined that any news not censored by Pauline would be a wrong number, no matter if it were the head of the DIR himself. Leidman looked up from his reading. I'm getting hungry, aren't you Willie? I guess so. I didn't notice, said Westerville. How about phoning down for something? Get whatever you like. That was typical of Leidman, Westerville realized. The man did not care what he ate. Smith would have been specific, though unimaginative. Parrish would have sent instructions about the seasoning. The girls would choose something sickening by Westerville's standards.  I'd better see what they're doing up front, he said. I think Mr. Smith was talking about being quicker to raid our own food locker. I'll be back in a minute. Leidman raised his gray blue eyes and stared through him curiously. No hurry, he said mildly. Westerville thought that the man was still watching him as he walked through the door. But he did not like to look back. It might have been so. When he reached the main office, he found both girls replacing folders in the Bay of Current Files opposite Simonetta's desk. How about letting me at the buried treasure, he asked. The thought of food is infiltrating insidiously. Willie, said Simonetta, you'll go far here. None of the other brains had such a good idea. I'll phone for something if you'll see what people want. I think Mr. Smith wants to use stuff we have in the locker, said Westerville, blocking the way to our desk. Hold it a second while I check. He rapped on Smith's door as he opened it. He found the chief with most of the papers on his desk shoved to one side so that a built-in tape viewer could be brought up from its concealed position. Smith was scowling as if obtaining little useful information from whatever he was watching. They're getting hungry, Westerville whispered. Is it all right to raid our guest locker?  Right, Willie, he agreed. The sooner the better. Take out whatever you think best and pass it around. Meanwhile, I'd better check on the situation downstairs. Come to think of it, when you called, did you get an outside line and punch the numbers yourself? No, but I have an understanding with Pauline, said Westerville. He was thinking that Smith had put him in charge of the food, which was perhaps a little better than being sent around to take personal orders, as the girls had assumed he would do. But which was still a long way beneath the conference status he had appeared to have an hour earlier. Good boy, Smith approved. Then she'll know who I want to talk to and that she shouldn't listen in. Westerville was far from singwine about the last condition, but left without trying to cause his chief any unhappiness. Well, so it goes, he reflected. One minute a project man, the next an office boy. If I pick out what everybody likes, I'll be a project man again. But if they like it too much, I'll turn out to be the official chef around here whenever someone important stays to lunch. The picture of sitting in on a talk with some potent official of the DIR and expounding on his brilliant solution to a problem, only to be requested to slap together a short order meal made him pause outside the door, frowning. Now what will he, asked Simonetta. He roused himself. Leave it to me, sigh, he answered, working up a grin. I have everything under control. I hope you know what you're doing, Beryl commented. I won't stand for a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy or anything that fattening. You'll have your choice, Westerville promised. I wouldn't want anything to spoil that figure. Just let me at the locker. He slipped an arm around her waist to move her aside. The flesh of her flank was softly firm under his fingers and he made himself think better of an impulse to squeeze. Beryl stepped away, now they're quickly enough to be skittish nor slowly enough to imply permissiveness. Westerville shrugged. He stepped forward to the blank wall at the end of the file cabinets and slid back a panel to reveal a white enameled food locker. It was divided into an upper and lower section with transparent doors that rolled around into the side walls. The lower half was refrigerated. Westerville opened the upper to explore more comfortably. Most of the foil packages contained sandwiches, many of them self-heating. Somewhat bulkier containers held more substantial delicacies. Walsh rabbit, turkey and baked potato, filet mignon, rattlesnake croquettes and salmon salad. There were sealed cups of coffee, tea or bouillon that heated themselves upon being opened and ice cream and fruits in the freezer section. Empty? Alright, you're in and Beryl's out trays. Do you expect me to go around with everybody's supper stuffed in my pockets? Frankly, yes, said Beryl, but not with mine. Let me see what they have in there. She examined the array while Westerville experimented with balancing two empty desk trays across his forearm. By the time he was ready, the girls had blocked him off and he had to wait until the possibilities had been debated thoroughly. In the end, Simonetta selected veal scaloppini and Beryl took a crab meat sandwich for herself and a filet mignon for Parish. Westerville grinned when he saw that she also chose four sealed martinis. Putting aside a budding curiosity about rattlesnake meat, he took a package of fried ham and eggs to see if it could be possible and a self-heating package of men's pie. For Smith, Leidman and Rosencrantz, he piled the tray with half a dozen roast beef and turkey sandwiches, a selection of pie and ice cream and all the coffee containers he could fit in. Psy picked out something nice for Pauline, he requested, noting that Beryl was already on the way across the office to Parish's door. Simonetta exclaimed at her forgetfulness, pushed aside the container that she had been warming on her desk according to the instructions, and told him to go ahead. I'll take her a salad and some bouillon, she said. The kid thinks she has to watch her wait already. As an afterthought, Westerville topped his load with a martini for Smith, on the theory that the chief was going to need it. He went in there first, let Smith see that nothing but coffee was on the way to Leidman, and made his exit directly into the hall. He made the communications room his next stop, and took what was left into the library to share with Leidman. The latter took a roast beef sandwich, pulled the heating tab and tore it open after they required 30 seconds with one twist of his powerful fingers. Westerville had a little more trouble with his package of ham and eggs, but the coffee cups were simpler. They sat there in silence, except for an occasional word, and a brief scramble when Westerville spilled coffee on a list of cases Leidman had thought of for further checking. The ex-spacer chewed methodically on three sandwiches, and poured down two containers of coffee, scanning a copy of the Galatles all the while. Westerville found the fried ham and eggs to be a disappointment. I should have tried to stay, he reflected. Eggs can't be done, not in taste right. There was one sandwich left, cold turkey, and Leidman had just begun on his third, so the youth helped himself. The hot men's pie had real flavor, and he was feeling quite comfortable by the time Leidman finished his ice cream. Shall I get some more coffee, Westerville offered. Not for me, said the other.  Westerville took the excuse to leave for a few minutes. He stopped in to see if Joe wanted anything, promised to look for bourbon, and returned to the main office. He found Simonetta sipping a solitary cup of coffee. Did they leave you all alone? He demanded. Oh no, she said. The boss came out and had coffee with Pauline and me, but then she had a call for him, and he thought he'd rather take it in his office. Westerville stepped over to Smith's door and listened. In theory it should have been soundproof, so he opened in to crack. Hearing Smith's voice, he pushed his luck and put his head inside. The chief was busy enough on the phone not to be aware of the intrusion. Yes, I appreciate your difficulty, Smith said, obviously having said it many times before. Still, if there was no way to send us an elevator, I would much rather not have a party climbing the 25 flights to break open the door. If it has to be broken, we can do it. Westerville recognized the answering voice, hoarser though it now was, as that of the silver-haired manager downstairs. He wondered why the side of each other did not make both the manager and Smith want to comb their hair. Naturally we will make good any damage, Smith said. Besides, you must have a good many other people on the lower floors of the tower to look after. Most of them are displaying the good sense to stay in their offices until the emergency has dealt with. Westerville crept inside and moved around until he could see the face pouting on the screen of Smith's phone. The man now had heavy shadows under his eyes, although he had moped off the perspiration that had bathed him when Westerville had spoken with him. Well, perhaps we have slightly different problems, Smith told the manager. Problems, explained the latter, his effort to contain his emotions was clearly visible. Well, of course, if it is really serious, perhaps we can get the police to send up an emergency rescue squad. No, Smith interrupted violently. No rescue squad. Would you not in any way need to be rescued? Not at all. The manager eyed him with dark suspicion. Is someone ill, he demanded? We cannot be responsible for any lawsuits due to your refusal to let us call competent authorities. Aren't you a competent authority? demanded Smith. Just get the elevator working, will you? We'll wait until then. There was no way of knowing when power will be restored, said the manager. You must have a TV set around the office somewhere so you can hear the news bulletins on the situation as soon as I can.  He saw Westerville and began to wave frantically toward the hall. I never thought of that, exclaimed the youth. He burst into the hall from Smith's private entrance, realized he would have to pass the library to reach Joe Rosencrantz with an order for censorship, and circled back to the main entrance. He went in, saw Simon at a still at her desk, and opened the door to Pauline's cubicle. When he got inside with a little blonde, her swivel chair, and her switchboard, there was just about room enough to breathe. Pauline, he panted, punched the comm room number and lent me her headset. This is cozy, she giggled, but did as he asked. Joe answered promptly. Joe, this is willy. It just so happens that Charlie Colburn was changing transistors in all the personal sets you have down there. So you can't pick up a newscast right now, right? There was a pregnant pause before one answered. Right, that's the way it goes. Can you talk? I don't see any image. I'm with Pauline. It's okay. I mean, it was just a thought in case, Sure, said Rosencrantz. Should have thought of that myself. Everything else alright? Westerville told him that it was. Agreed that he hoped it would continue. Then he surrendered the headset to Pauline, who tickled his ribs as he squirmed around to leave the cubicle. Don't you dare, she giggled when he turned on her. I'll talk. Please no, Pauline, he sighed. Anything but that. He walked loosely past Simonetta, who stared at him unbelievably and started to enter Smith's office again. Behind him, he heard the sounds of a door being closed and high heels clicking subduedly on the springing floor. Beryl's voice said something as he began to look around. He stopped. What did she say? Yeah, Simonetta. Beryl had already disappeared toward the hall. She said Mr. Parrish invited her downstairs for a cocktail. He thinks they should have about 20 minutes to relax before going back to work. You're kidding, gasp Westerville. No, I'm not. Willie, you've been acting awfully strange. Where have you been ducking to every time Westerville was already running for the hall? He skidded and nearly fell going through the entrance. Beryl will stand near the elevator. Did you ring yet? Asked Westerville. No, I'm waiting for Mr. Parrish, said Beryl, in a tone that emphasized unwieldiness of an assembly of three persons. Your lipstick is smeared, said Westerville. Beryl gave him an even less believing stare than had Simonetta, but glancing hastily at her watch began to fumble at her compact. In here, where the light is better, said Westerville. He grabbed her by an elbow and dragged her into the office before it occurred to her to resist. Please, Willie, you're handling me, she protested coldly. Westerville was already out the door, bent upon taking the other entrance to Smith's office when he saw the hall door of Parrish's office open. He reversed direction in time to meet Parrish as the latter stepped into the corridor. Beryl said to tell you she'll be right back, he said, waving a thumb vaguely in the direction of the restrooms. Oh, thanks, Willie, answered Parrish. I'll wait inside. Westerville reached Smith's office before Parrish had completely closed his own door. From the corner of his eye he saw the blue of Beryl's dress. Mr. Smith, he called as he thrust his head inside. I think I need your help. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of D99 by H.B. Fife This LibriVox recording is in public domain. First sensation that penetrated agonizingly to Taranto's consciousness was that of heat. Heat and then the damp itch of soaking sweat. The next feeling, as he groggily sought to take out the slack in his hanging jaw, was thirst. It was a raging demand that brought him entirely awake. Before he could control himself, he had admitted a groan. Immediately he was dropped from whatever had been supporting him in a swaying, dipping fashion. He landed with a thud on the ground. A chatter of Sasoken broke out above him. It was answered by other Sasoken voices farther away. Taranto kept his eyes closed and lay limply where he had sprawled, while he tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Shortly before dawn, he and Myers had each swallowed his capsule as directed. He remembered a period of vague drowsiness after that, then nothing more until he had been awakened just now. From his still-dizzy mind, he sought to drag the outline of events expected. They had hoped to be taken out to the desert, possibly to a Sasoken burial ground. According to the local custom, and left to be dried by the desiccating blaze of the sun. It had been planned that a spaceship would land in the late afternoon to pick them up. Undoubtedly, it would take the Sasoken several hours to report the deaths and to secure official permission for disposal of the bodies, even though they were less given to red-taped enterans. Still, they should have abandoned the bodies long before Taranto had expected to awake. He risked opening one eye a slit. Sasoken legs crowding around blocked his view, but he could tell that it was dusk. The heat he felt must be that of sand and rocks that had baked all day. It must have taken the Sasokans a long time to get this far. He wondered whether they had brought him an unusual distance into the desert, perhaps to avoid contaminating their own burial grounds, or whether they had simply indulged in some long-winded debate as to the proper course to pursue in regard to deceased aliens. My God, he thought, what if they decided to dissect us? I never thought of that. I wonder if the Joker that sent those pills did, whatever had gone wrong, he was well behind schedule. He could imagine the chagrin of the DIY man watching the proceedings through his little flying spy eye. Taranto hoped the spacers hired for the pickup were still standing by. At the worst, they would have water. Cautiously, he tried to move his tongue inside his mouth. It stuck against his teeth. He suspected that the taste would be terrible if he could taste it all. The heat, he thought. I've been soaking up heat all day and not sweating. Now it's jetting out of every pore. Whatever the drug had done or failed to do, it must have nearly suspended most of the normal functions of the body. No wonder he was perspiring so heavily as he began to recover. Even so, he felt as if he had a fever. He began to hope that he had not been carried for very long. Unless he had been lying in the cell, or better in some examination room at ground level, for most of the elapsed time while disputes held up disposal of his body, some instinct told him he was very likely to die. Someone rubbed a hand roughly over his face, slipping through the film of sweat. At this demonstration, renewed exclamations broke out above him.  A moment later, Taranto heard a horse yelp that could have come only from a tyrant throat. Then words began to form, and he realized that it must be Myers. That blew the pipes, he thought, and opened his eyes. A Sasokan looking down on him hissed in astonishment. Others, who had been watching another group about twenty feet away, turned to stare down at Taranto. He was hauled to his feet by the first pair that thought of it. One, a minor officer by his red uniform, sputtered a question at the tyrant, forgetting in his evident excitement that he was speaking Sasokan. Taranto wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. He was beginning to feel a trifle cooler as his perspiration evaporated in the dry air, but his surrounding seemed feverishly unreal. He could not quite understand what Myers was shouting now, but even in the hoarse voice could be detected a note of pleading. Taranto thought it must be something about water. The Sasokan before him gathered his wits and repeated his question to Taran.  The tyrant tried to answer, but could not get the words out. He gestured weakly at a water skin secured to the harness of one of the soldiers. After a brief moment of hesitation, the officer waived permission. The soldier detached the container and handed it suspiciously to Taranto. Fearing the effect of too much liquid in one jolt, the latter forced himself to take only a few small swallows. He wished he could afford to stick his whole head inside the skin and soak up the water like a blotter.  The tiny greenish-gray scales of his facial skin actually seemed ruffled. Taranto dizzily sought for some likely apology to excuse his being alive. He decided that there might be a slim chance of getting away with a whopper. If it is officially declared, then of course I am dead, he croaked. What do you expect? Look how weak I am. The Sasoken swiveled a narrow pointed skulls about at each other. I'm in the last minutes, said Taranto sadly. What last minutes? asked the officer. It's the way Terrans pass on, asserted the spacer. Didn't you ever see a Terran die? The officer silently avoided admitting so much, running a hand reflectively over his thick waist, but his hesitation provided an opening. That's the way it goes, said Taranto. First a blackout, we sleep, that is. Then the last minutes, the sweat of death, and bluey. He raised the water skin instinct a long swallow, risking it because he feared he might not be allowed another. He was right. The officer snatched away the skin and thrust it into the long fingers of its indignant owner. If you are so dead, he demanded, not illogically. Why do you drink up our water? Sorry, apologized Taranto. Where are we? What difference is it to you? I don't want to make hard feelings or bad luck by dying in one of your burial grounds. It will not happen, said the officer grimly. We have been sent in another place to guard against that. Look back, you can see the city over that way. Taranto turned. The outline of the city walls, with lights showing here and there on the watchtowers, loomed up about five miles away. A small rise on the rolling ground of the desert hid the base of the walls, and the greater part of the rough trail that had evidently followed. It would have been a fine spot for a spaceship to drop briefly to the surface. Do you wish to lie down here? asked the officer politely. We will wait until it is over.  He looked desperately about, striving to give the impression of seeking a comfortable spot. He felt the situation turning more and more sour by the minute. It would be very difficult to feign death successfully again, now that the Sasoken's suspicions were so aroused. They might well make sure of him in their own way. Near him stood a half a dozen brown-clad soldiers. Four of them, spears slung on their shoulders by braided straps, had apparently been carrying him while two others acted as relief-bearers. Besides the officer, there was a sub-officer, also in brown, but wearing a red harness. In the background, a similar group clustered about Myers. Taranto saw that he had been tumbled from a sort of flat stretcher of wicker work. It was of careless craftsmanship, as if meant to be abandoned with the body it served on the last journey. He wondered if it could be assumed to be his property. Don't put yourselves out, he said. I can't hardly take a step, even to sit down. It'll be just a couple of minutes now. Goodbye. The Sasoken officer made no move to depart. Taranto had not really dared to hope that he would. He was trying to think of some further excuse when Myers saved him the troubles. Help! Taranto! Shrieked the other spacer, bursting suddenly from the group about him. I told them we're alive and they want to kill us. He ran staggeringly toward Taranto, picking up spurts of sand. His shirt front was dark with sweat and dribbled water. He looked wild with fright. Ah, they do live, exclaimed the officer. Seize them! He seemed to realize only after about ten seconds that he had, this time, spoken Terran. Evidently feeling that not all his men might have learned that particular language, he began to repeat the order in Sasoken. Taranto interfered by swinging his fist at the center of the greenish-gray features. The Sasoken, arms flung wide, sailed backward and landed on the nape of his neck in a patch of gravel. Myers screamed hoarsely as his own bearers cut up to him and dragged him down. Taranto sprang forward to snatch up the wicker stretcher from the ground. A long-fingered hand clutched at his shoulder, but let go when he kicked backward without looking around. He raised the stretcher and swung it around in a wide arc at the three Sasokans reaching for him. Two, having left their heads unprotected, went down. But the stretcher frame crumpled. Taranto tripped the other Sasoken, glancing hopefully at the sky. There was no sign of the fire trail of it descending spaceship in the deepening twilight. Then he had to duck as the other three bearers were upon him. Get up, Myers, he yelled. He met the rush with a hard left that dumped the leading Sasoken on his back. The next hesitated and was brushed aside by the sixth, who had had the wits to unsling his spear. Taranto sidestepped the crude but large point that thrust straight at his belly. The shaft of the spear stood along his left ribs and he punched over the outstretched arms of the soldier at the Sasoken's head. He clamped the spear between his elbow and body, retaining it as his attacker staggered back. Two or three were now advancing from where a nod of figures seemed to be sitting upon Myers in the gloom. They did not especially hurry. Taranto had begun to reverse the spear to jab at the Sasoken left facing him when he heard a scrabbling behind him. He whirled away to his right, ducking instinctively as a body hurtled past him. When he faced about, he found that most of those whom he had knocked down were again on their feet and advancing. The officer, the lower part of his face smeared with purplish blood, ran at Taranto full till. He screamed an order in his own language. The spacer cracked the butt of the spear smartly against the Sasoken's head, sending him down on his face. One of the others, however, managed to get a grip on the weapon. Instinct told Taranto that any attempt at a tug of war on his part would lead to a fatal entanglement. He dodged away and sprinted toward the group pinning Myers. A Sasoken voice yelled mushyly behind him as he concentrated upon driving with the greatest possible force into the writhing group before him. He struck with a crutch that tumbled bodies in all directions. Taranto himself felt sand scrape raspingly against the side of his face as he half rolled, half skidded along the ground. His pursuers now caught up to the new location of hostilities. The first thing Taranto saw as he managed to drag one knee under him was the butt end of a spear plunging in his midsection. The Sasoken behind it had his center of gravity well ahead of his turning feet. Obviously intent upon doing great bodily harm. The spacer wondered for a split second why the native did not use his point. Then he twisted hips and torso to his right, drawing back his left shoulder. As the spear passed him, he slipped down hard on the shaft with his left hand. The butt dug into the sand and the Sasoken hissed in consternation as he vaulted head over heels before he could release the weapon. The one immediately behind was caught in the center of his harness by a flying foot, whereupon he collapsed with a groan across the prone figure of his comrade. Two more who had dropped their spears reached out toward Taranto, urged on by the officer on their heels. Taranto saw Meyer stagger to his feet, then the two Sasokans were all over him. He skipped away to his left over a pair of limp legs, parried a groping hand, and brought around the long low left hook that had made him respected in past years. In the ring he had floored men with that punch. At the least he expected a fine loud whoosh from the Sasoken, but the latter disappointed him. He folded in limp silence. For a second or two everything stopped. Taranto stared down at the soldier slumped on the ground like a loose sack of potatoes. Even the Sasokans who were not at the moment engaged in pulling themselves to their feet also gait. Light dawned for the spacer, those among whom he had gone head hunting and kept getting to their feet as fast as he knocked them down. Hit him in the gut, he yelled to Meyer's. That's where their brains are. He charged at the nearest Sasoken lips drawn back in an unconscious snarl. The soldier made a reflexive motion to cross his arms before his thick abdomen. Taranto, unopposed, hit him alongside the head with a light right, then whipped the left hook in again as the arms began to lift. The Sasoken went out like a light. Come on, Taranto shattered at Meyer's when he saw that the other had not moved. Two of us could do it.  Kick them if you can't do anything else.  His voice hoarse as much with fear as with thirst.  Give up when they only take his back. Taranto sent someone behind him.  He tried to cut back to his right. He slipped in a patch of sand and saved himself from going flat only by catching his weight on both outstretched hands. One of the Sasokans landed across his back, feeling blindly for a hold.  He was promptly wrapped in the long arms of another soldier facing him as the grip from the rear slid down to his waist. The fellow behind him seemed to think he could hurt him by needing both nobby fists into the spacers belly, but there was too much hard muscle there. The Terran again butted forward this time and brought up his knee. This was less effective than it should have been, but it helped him free one arm so that he could drive an elbow backward. The officer ran up with a reverse spear. From the look in his big black eyes, Taranto realized that the Sasoken had also learned something during the melee. That explained, no doubt, why he was an officer. He swung the spear in a neat arc at Taranto's head. It cracked against the Terran's skull. Even though he did his best to ride with it, he felt his knees buckle. He struck out with his right fist, but the punch was smothered by the soldier whom he had need. The spear came down again. The world of Taranto's existence was reduced to a narrow view of a straining greenish gray calf showing through a torn leg of a Sasoken uniform. Vaguely, he realized that he was on his hands and knees. A great number of hands seemed to be grabbing at him, and his own were very heavy as he groped out for the leg. He got some sort of fumbling grip and started to haul himself up. The slowness of his motions alarmed him in a foggy way. He tried to tuck his chin behind his left shoulder because he knew that there was something... something coming. It came. The Sasoken officer's big foot took him behind the ear with a brutal thump. Taranto, however, seeking into a gray nothingness, did not really feel it. End of chapter 10, chapter 11 of D99 by H.B. Fife. This LibriVox recording is in public domain. Smith stood at the corner of the corridor, leaning back every half a minute or so to peek around at the stretch leading toward the library and communications room. Westervilt had propped himself with folded arms against the opposite wall, facing the door to the stairs. Beryl hovered around Parrish, Smith impatiently between darting glares at Westervilt. All right, I guess I have to tell you, Pete, said Smith in a low tone. You might say we are temporarily inconvenienced. By him, asked Parrish, jerking a thumb in Westervilt's direction. That I could understand. The kids began to think he's a comedian. He started out just now playing Charlie's ant. Shh, said Smith softly. Westervilt turned his head toward the main entrance, wondering how far Parrish's voice had carried. Smith's dapper assistant looked from one to the other, seeking some evidence of sanity. He turned with raised eyebrows to Beryl. The blonde rounded her blue eyes at him and shrugged. Pete, this is no joke, insisted Smith. I wish it hadn't gotten around so fast, but there it is. There what is, demanded Parrish, in a tone bordering on the quarreless. Well, there's been some kind of power failure throughout the business district. There aren't any elevators running, and we don't know how long it will be until the power company copes with the trouble. He stared at the sliding doors of the elevator shaft as if unable to comprehend the lack of such service. No elevators? And 99 stories up? Shh, said Smith, glancing down the corridor. What's the matter with you, Castor? Asked Parrish. Are you watching for someone? Someone... Oh... See what I'm thinking? Asked Smith. They faced each other for a moment in silence. Well, it ought to be all right as long as you can get down the stairs if you want to, said Parrish. I'm sorry, Barrel. We'll have to make it some other time. But how are we going to get home? asked the blonde. Well, they'll probably have it fixed by the time we're finished here, said Parrish. Then what's all the trouble about? Why is Willy looking so sour? Westerville braced himself against the impact of three glances and tried not to sneer. The other two men cleared their throats and looked back at Barrel. I'm going to have to ask your cooperation, Barrel, said Smith. First, Pete, I'd like to point out to you a little gem of modern design. This door here is powered to slide open automatically for a fire or other emergency. Of course, said Parrish curiously. But there isn't any power, Smith pointed out. Parrish reached out impatiently and tried the door. He wrenched that at two or three times, then bent to peer for the latch. No use, Pete, said Smith, glancing down the hall again. Willy already went through that whole routine. I've been on the phone with the building manager and there isn't anything he can do except send a party up from the 75th floor to burn open the door from the stair side. Is he doing it? Well, frankly, I told him it wasn't necessary, said Smith, getting a stubborn look on his long face. But you know, Bob, expostulated Parrish, if he gets the idea that he's pinned in here. I know, I know, said Smith. On the other hand, we can always get something from the lab and break out from this side, provided we take care not to let him know what is going on until later. Westerville, I'd barrel sardonically. He had seldom seen an expression so blended of impatience and vague worry. He wondered if anyone would explain to her. Parrish shook his head. I think it might be better to call downstairs again and have them come up, he said. I don't want to do that, said Smith. Why not? We would get around. Pretty soon the story would be all over the D.I.R. Parrish actually leaned forward slightly to study his chief's face. He found no words, but his very expression was plaintive. Smith sighed. We're in the business of springing spacers from jails all over the explored galaxy, he said. We're supposed to be loaded to the jets of high potency brain waves and have a gadget for every purpose. How is it going to look if we're locked in our own office and can't get out without help? Parrish threw up his hands, pivoting. He walked loosely a few feet along the corridor and back, squeezing his chin in the palm of one hand. He clasped his hands behind his back then and peered around Smith at the empty wing of the corridor. Maybe we could dope him, he suggested, without much feeling. I should have thought of that, admitted Smith, but he's finished eating. Can we find something in the lab to shoot a dart? As Smith tried to remember, Westervilt interrupted. If you decide on that, I'm not volunteering to thank you. Did you ever see Mr. Leidman move in a hurry? Whoever tries it, it better not miss with the first dart. Smith said, Harumph! And Parrish looked uncomfortable. The assistant glanced momentarily at Barrel but shook his head immediately. Westervilt followed his thinking. For one thing, Leidman was known to be devoted to his wife and two children. For another, who knew how badly Barrel might miss. Now if everyone will just keep calm, said Smith, and we can keep Bob busy, we'll probably get along fine until they restore power.  It's unthinkable. I suppose you're right, said Parrish. Smith turned to Barrel. What I meant by asking your cooperation, he said, is that we'll need to have someone with Mr. Leidman most of the time. Willie has been doing it until now, but we don't want it to look like deliberate surveillance. But why? asked Barrel. I mean, I see that it worries all of you that he might find out. But what if he does? Possibly nothing, answered Smith. On the other hand, Mr. Leidman was once imprisoned in his space-traveling days. He was held for a very long time under very trying conditions, and the experience has left him with a problem. It is not exactly claustrophobia. He pauses it to let Barrel recall other remarks about Leidman. Their general air of gravity seemed to impress her. I'll be glad to help, she said reluctantly. Fine, said Smith, probably nothing will be necessary. Now I think we'd better go in and tell Psy so that everyone will be alerted to the situation. Westerville caught the glance that passed between Parrish and Barrel. He was almost certain that each of them was mentally counting the people who had known before they had been told. That's what you get for being so busy in the dead files, he thought. They trooped in behind Smith. Simon had a watch as if they had been a parade. Smith, with an occasional comment from Parrish, told her the story. So that is the partial reason for staying late, he concluded. Although, of course, the case of Harris comes first. Westerville had wandered over to a window. He adjusted the filter dial for a maximum clarity and looked out. From where he was, he could see a great black carpet across part of the city, spreading out from somewhere beneath his position until it was cut by a sharp line of streetlights many blocks away. Beyond that, the city looked normal. To the near side of the invisible boundary, and, he supposed, for a light distance in the opposite direction behind his viewpoint, there were only sparse and faint glows of emergency lights. Some were doubtless powered by buildings with the equipment for the purpose. Others were the lights of police and emergency vehicles on the ground or cruising low between the Teller buildings. I wonder what they actually do when something like this happens, he thought. What if they think they have it fixed, turn on the juice again and it blows a second time. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of Simon at his phone. From where he was, he could see Joe Rosencrantz's features as the operator asked for Smith. Oh, there you are, Mr. Smith, said Joe. Pauline has been trying all over, tried into his transmitting, and I thought you would want to be here. They said they have a relay set up right to Harris. Smith let out a whoop and made for the door. He'll be right there, Simonetta told the grinning TV man. Parrish and Westerville trailed along. When the latter looked back, he saw that Simonetta had replaced Barrel and he could hardly blame the blonde for seizing the chance to sit down and collect her thoughts. He felt like crawling into a hole somewhere himself. Passing the library, Parrish cocked an eyebrow at him. Westerville nodded. He went in and told Leidemann about the call. The ex-spacer was interested enough to join the procession. When Westerville followed him into the communications room, Joe Rosencrantz was explaining the set up to Smith. Like before, we go through Pluto, Capella 7, and an automatic relay on an outer planet of the Trident system. But you won't see anything of that. It's after we get Johnson that the fun begins. He leaned back in his swivel chair before the screen and surveyed the group. Johnson is going to think to a fish near his island. This fish thinks to one swimming near Harris. They claim Harris answers. Smith ran both hands through his hair. We try anything, he said. Let's go. Joe got in contact with Johnson to tear in DIR man, among other things, on Trident. The latter was not quite successful in hiding and I told you so attitude. Harris himself confirms that he is being held on the ocean floor, he said. He seems to be a sort of a pet or curiosity. Can you make any sense out of the messages, asked Smith? I mean, is there any difficulty because of a language barrier? We don't want to make some silly assumption and find out it was based on a misunderstanding. After the weird pause caused by the mind-numbing distance, Johnson replied, there isn't any language barrier and a thought, but you might say there's sometimes an attitude barrier. Usually we can pick up an equivalent meaning if we assume, for instance, that our time sense is similar to that of one of these fish. Well, try asking Harris how deep he is, suggested Smith. They watched Johnson look away, although the man did not seem to be going through any marked effort of concentration. Hardly 30 seconds of this had elapsed when they saw him scowl. This fish off my beach can't get it through his massive intellect that he can't think directly to another fish at your position. He thinks you must be pretty queer not to have someone to do your thinking for you. Smith turned a little red. Westervilt admired Joe Rosencrantz's poker face. Johnson appeared to be insisting. Harris says he has two minutes swim under the surface, he reported. Well, how far from your position then, asked Smith. The distance turned out to be a day and a half swim. Does he need anything? Are they keeping him under deliverable conditions? The pause. And Johnson relayed. They pump him air and feed him. He needs someone to get him out. How can we find him, asked Smith? Can he work up any way of signaling us?  He wants you to get him out. Smith looked around him for questions. Leidman suggested asking how Harris was confined. Smith put it to Johnson and after the maddening pause, got an answer.  Inside, he is free to move around and he wants to get out. Then have him tell us where it is, snapped Smith. He doesn't know, came the reply. They move about every so often. What did I say, was perperish, nomadic. No one took the time to congratulate him because Smith was asking what the Tridentians were like. Johnson's mental connection seemed to develop static. They saw him shake his head as it to clear it. He turned a puzzled expression to the screen. I didn't get that very plainly, he admitted. A sort of combination of thoughts, they feed him and they don't taste good. Well tell your fishy friend to keep his own opinions out of it, said Smith, surprising Westerville, who would not quite caught up to the situation. Johnson a moment later grimaced. His expression became apologetic. Don't say things like that, he told Smith, turning against the screen. It slipped through my mind as I heard you and he didn't like it. Who, Harris? No, the fish at his end. I apologized for you. There was a general restless shifting of feet in the Terran office. Smith seemed in the dim lighting of the communications room to flush a deeper shade. And what does Harris say? Johnson inquired. Harris requested that they get him out.  He must be punchy. It happens, Lightman reminded him softly. Yes, said Smith after a startled look. But some were like that to begin with, and his record suggested all the way. He asked Johnson to get a description of a place where Harris found himself. The answer was, in a fashion, conclusive. Like any other part of the sea bottom, reported Johnson. And furthermore, he's tired of thinking and wants to rest. Who does, demanded Smith. They won't tell me, said Johnson sadly. Smith choked off a curse, noticing Simonetta standing there. He combed his hair furiously with both hands. No one suggested any other questions, so he thanked Johnson and told Joe to break off. At least we know it's all real, he said. He was actually taken, and he's still alive. You put a lot of faith in a couple of fish, said Lightman. Smith hesitated. Well now, they aren't really fish, he said. Let's not build up a mental misconception, just because we've been kidding about Swishy the thinking fishy. Actually, they probably wouldn't even suggest fish to an ectheologist. And they may be a pretty high form of life. They may be as high as this Harris, commented Parrish, and earned a cold stare from Lightman. I think I'll look around the labs at the ladder, as the others made motions toward breaking up the gathering. Westerville promptly headed for the door. He saw that Lightman was walking around the corner of the wire mesh partition that enclosed the special apparatus of the communications room, doubtless bent upon taking a shortcut into the lab. I want to go sit down a while before they pin me on him again, thought the youth. I need 15 minutes, then I'll relieve whoever has him, if Smithy wants me to. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12 of D99 by H.B. Fife. This Levervox recording is in public domain. The light, imputed after penetrating 50 fathoms of Tredenshin Sea, was murky and green-tinted. But Tom Harris had become more or less used to that. It rankled, nevertheless, that the sea people continued to ignore his demands for a lamp. He knew that they used such devices. Through the clear walls of his tank, he had seen night parties swimming out to hunt small varieties of fish. The watercraft they piloted on longer trips and up to the surface were also equipped with lights powered by some sort of battery. It infuriated Harris to be forced arbitrarily to exist isolated in the dimness of the ocean bottom day, or the complete blackness of night. He rose from the spot where he had been squatting on his heels. So smooth was the glassy footing that he slipped and almost fell headlong. He regained his balance and looked about. The tank was about 10 by 10 feet and twice as long, with metal angles which he assumed to be aluminum securing all edges. These formed the outer corners so that he could see the gaskets inside them that made the tank water tight. The sea people, he had to admit, were quite capable of coping with their environment and understanding his. The end of the tank distant from Harris was opaque. He thought that there were connections to a towing vehicle as well as to the plant that pumped air for him. The big fish had not made that quite clear to him. All other sides of the tank were quite clear. Whenever he walked about, he could look through the floor and find groups of shells and other remnants of deceased marine life in the white sand. Occasionally he considered the pressure that would implode upon him should anything happen to rupture the walls. But he had become habitually successful in forcing that idea to the back of his mind. Along each of the side walls were four little airlocks. The use of these was at the moment being demonstrated by one of the sea people to what Harris was beginning to think of as a child. The parent was slightly smaller than Harris, who stood five feet five and weighed 130 pounds tarant. It also had four limbs, but that was about the last point they had in common. The Tridentian's limbs all joined his armored body near the head. Two of them ended in powerful pincers. The others forked into several delicate tentacles. The body was somewhat flexible despite the weight of rugged shell segments and tapered to a spread tail upon which the crustacean balanced himself easily. Harris felt that a distinct disadvantage in the vision department. Each of the Tridentians had four eyes protruding from his chin and his head. The adult had grown one pair of eye stocks to a length of nearly a foot. The second pair, like both of the youngsters, extended only a few inches. The tarant could not be sure whether the undersea currency consisted of metal or shell, but the Tridentian deposited some sort of coin in a slot machine outside one of the little airlocks. It caused a grinding noise. Directly afterward, a small lump of compressed fish, boned, was ejected from an opening on the inside.  Think they're doing me a favor. He let them wait a good five minutes before he decided the prudent course was to accept the offering. Sneering, he walked over and picked up the food. On days he had been too angry or too disgusted to accept the favors of sightseers, his keepers assumed that he was not hungry. In the beginning, he had also had a most difficult time getting through to them his need for fresh water. That was when he had come to believe in the large, fish-like swimmer who had transmitted his thoughts to the sea people. The fact that the latter could and did produce fresh water for him aroused his grudging respect, even though the taste was nothing to take lightly. He juggled the lump of fish in one hand, causing the little Tridentian to toil his eye stocks in glee and swim up off the ocean bottom to look down through the top of the tank. The parent also wiggled his eye stocks more sedately. Harris suspected them of laughing and turned his back. Looking through the other side of his tank, he could see to such distance as the murky light permitted. The parked vehicles of the Tridentians. Like a collection of small boats, they were of sundry sizes and shapes, depending perhaps upon each owner's fancy, perhaps on his skill. Harris did not know whether the Tridentian's craftsmanship extended to the level of having professional builders. At any rate, they were spread out like a small city. Among them were tent-like arrangements of nets to keep out swimming Berman. Other than that, the sea people used no shelters. They were smart enough to build a cage for me, he thought bitterly.  That Department of Interstellar Relations, or whatever they call it, why can't they get me out of here? Where did Big Fish go now? He saw several of the crustacean people approaching from the camping area. Shortly no doubt, he would again be a center of mass attention, with cubes of compressed and stinking fish shooting at him from all the little airlocks. He snarled wordlessly. The group seemed to comment certain periods which he had been unable to define. He could only guess that they had choice times for hunting, besides other work that had to be done to maintain the campsite and their jet-propelled craft. I'd like to get one of them in here and boil them, thought Harris. Big Fish claims they don't taste good. I wonder. Anyway, it would shake them up. He had long since given up thinking about what the sea people could do to him if they chose. They were flushing the tank 18 inches deep with seawater twice a day, had soon given him an idea, especially as he had nowhere to go during the process. He no longer permitted himself to fall asleep anywhere near the inlet pipe. He noticed that the dozen or so sightseers were edging around the end of the tank to join the first individual in his offspring. Looking up, Harris saw the reason. A long dark shadow was curving down in an insolently deliberate dive. It was streamlined as a tarant shark and as long as the tank in which Harris lived, the flat line of its leading edge split into something very like a yawn, displaying astonishing upper and lower carpets of conical teeth. This was possible because the eyes, about eight Harris thought, about the head end of the long body. They know I don't like to eat them, but I like to scare them a little. Big fish thought to Harris. Look at them trying to smile at me. Harris watched the Tridentians wiggling and waving their eye stalks as the monster passed lazily over them and turned to come slowly back. I'd like to scare them a lot, said Harris, who had learned some time ago that he got through better just by forgetting telepathy and verbalizing. Is the DIR man still there? Which, what you thought, inquired big fish? The other tarant, the one on the island. The other air-breathing one is gone. The other big fish is feeding as I have done just now and it is not clear about the far tarant who lacks a big fish. All the bastards on both worlds are out to lunch, growled Harris, and here I sit. You are in to lunch, agreed the monster.  Harris had come to imagine that he could detect big fish's limited features. You're the only friend I've got, he exclaimed, slipping suddenly into self-pity. I wish I could go with you. Once you could, when you had your own tank. It was what we call a submarine, said Harris. I was looking to see what was on the ocean floor. Tell me, is it all like this? Is it all like what, with blue lobsters? Harris still retained enough sanity to realize that the Tridentians did not suggest tarant lobsters to this being who probably could not even imagine them. That was an automatic translation of thought furnished out of his own memory and name calling. No, he said.  Where do these crabs get their metals? There are different kinds of holes and hills. It is all mostly the same. You cannot swim into anywhere, although there are little things that dig under the soft sand. Some of them are good to eat, but you have to spit out a lot of sand. The crabs dig with machines sometimes, in big holes, but what they catch I do not know. Everything that catches them? asked Harris bitterly. No, they are big enough to catch other things, except a few. Things that are bigger than I am are not smart. The monster made a pass along the ocean bed near the Tridentians, stirring up a cloud of sand and causing Harris his captor to shrink against the side of his tank. He clapped the backs of his fists against his forehead above the eyes and wiggled his forefingers of the Tridentians on the other side of the clear barrier. The monster made a pass along the ocean bed near the Tridentians, stirring up a cloud of sand and causing Harris his captor to shrink against the side of his tank, making sure that every sightseer had opportunity to note his gesture. He had an idea that they did not like it much. They do not like it at all, thought Big Fish. Some of them are asking for the man who lets the sea into your tank. Don't call it a man, objected Harris, giving up his posturing. He was sitting down again, but decided against it in case the onlookers should succeed in obtaining the services of the tank attendant. He walked to the end of the tank where he could stare into the greenish distance without looking at the Tridentian camp. I wish I were dead, he muttered. They'll never get me out of here. Behind him he heard the plop plop of food tidbits landing on the floor of the tank as the onlookers sought to regain his attention. They must have come out of their moment of peak if they were trying to coax him to amuse them further. The bone in those hunks of fish I'd kill myself, said Harris.  Harris looked up resentfully. I do not understand you, thought the monster. That would be very foolish.  No matter how, it would be extremely foolish. For then you would be dead. Harris could not think of anything to say. He could not even think of anything to think, obviously, since none of his chaotic, half-formed thoughts brought a response. It would be as if you had been eaten, insisted his friend. Alright, alright, I won't do it then. If that'll make you happy, exclaimed Harris. It has no effect on how well I feed. Big Fish informed him. It took Harris a minute, but he figured it out. So that's your philosophy, he muttered to himself. Now I know what it takes to make you happy. Something to eat. Where? I do not see anyone I want to eat. Never mind, said Harris. What's more about the ocean bottom? Where there are big holes or cliffs, can you see stripes on the sides, layers of rock? Sometimes, where it is deep enough. Other places, there are things growing to the bottom. Only little fish that are not even good to eat do their feeding there. Sometimes the sea people take away they growing things, or dig holes. I'll bet there are plenty of things to get out of this ocean, used Harris. Who knows how the climate may have changed in thousands of years. In my sage, the seas would have shrunk. Maybe there was a volcanic age. Maybe you could drill underwater and find oil. If you knew where to look. Maybe there are deposits of diamonds under the ooze. He stopped when he sensed a vague irritation. He realized that his thoughts had been going out and scoring the cleanest of misses. It doesn't matter, he said. Just tell me what you do know about the sea. I can tell you where to find tribes of the sea people. I can tell you where to find all sorts of good eating fish. I know where to think to other big fish, but that I cannot tell them. You cannot feel it. The monster rose slowly through the water. He had seen something up there that interested him. Harris knew and would return when it occurred to him. He considered the possibilities. Perhaps there was something in the idea of building up a food industry. If he had inside tips on where the fish were, how could you miss? Then the Tridentians must have some knowledge of where to find metals since they used them. He suspected they had factories somewhere. Come to think of it, he asked himself. How do I know it isn't some savage trick that picked me up? One of these days I may wind up with a more advanced bunch. I'll have to ask big fish when he comes back. He began to plan what he would do if he reached some higher civilization under the sea. Anyone with the knowledge to mine metals or maybe to extract them from seawater would be interested in contacting Terrans from another world. There would be a little trouble, probably, in getting them to comprehend space. But some of them could be sent up to the surface in tanks. Then there would be a need for some Terran who knew both worlds. I could run. Maybe I could even work it with this bunch. If I could only get out of here. Come back in another submarine maybe. He began to pace the length of his tank and back, stopping once to gather up the fish that had been bought for him by some of the crowd outside. He noted that the ladder was constantly changing without varying much in total number. He took to walking around the sides of the tank, staring into each side of eyes. In the end, this had such a hypnotic effect that he imagined himself swimming into the sea. He thought it was a good idea to have such a hypnotic effect that he imagined himself swimming through dim, greenish light. The sea people outside began to appear as individuals. He grew into the feeling that he could recognize one from the other. He found himself running for the corner where he had collected his fish. The sound that had triggered their reaction originated at the opaque end of the tank. It was followed within seconds by several jets of water, white and forceful, which entered near the floor of the structure. Harris snatched up his supply of food and, on one hand, he tried to roll up the legs of his pants. He never seemed to be prepared when the time came, but he was constantly too chilled to go around with the trousers rolled up all the time. The water switched about the calves of his legs. After a few minutes, it began to recede as the Tridentian machinery pumped it out. Soon, the tank was clean of everything but Harris, the fish, and the thick smell of seawater. He was good, came a thought. I see you are eating too. A large shadow passed overhead. Most of the Tridentians wiggled their eye stocks to look amiable. Harris dropped his fish to the damp floor. No, I'm not eating, he said. I'm all wet. So am I, answered Big Fish. But I'm not usually, said Harris. I know. It is unkind the way they let you dry out. Would you like me to knock on the end of the tank? You could have all the water you want. Not right now, said Harris calmly. He sat down, crossing his legs. I'll have to grow some gills first. It may not take much longer at that. The Tridentians who looked into him. Again, he felt the sensation of being able to recognize individuals. Perhaps he should talk to them more often through Big Fish. Maybe some of them are really nice fellows, he muttered. No, his friend told him. They are not very good to eat. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of D99 by H.B. Fife. This LibriVox recording is in public domain. Time had dragged it slow way past 6.30. The excuse of a flying start on the Harris case had worn thin to the point of delicacy. To all but one man. The rest of them hoped sincerely that he was keeping himself interested. Westerville sat at his desk, perusing an article in Space Man's World about the exploration of a newly discovered planetary system. It might come up in a conference some day, he reflected. And it might be as well to know a few facts on the subject. No life had been discovered on any of the dozen planets. But that did not necessarily preclude the establishment of a Terran colony in the future. He put down the magazine for a moment to review the personnel situation. Parish, he remembered, had expressed his intention of retreating to his office and putting in an hour or two of desk healing. Under the circumstances, he had declared, there was little point in digging further into the files for an idea since that was not at all the primary purpose in staying late. Rosencrantz, of course, was on watch in the communications room. Smith wandered in and out. Simonetta had taken a portable taper down to Leibman's office to help organize a preliminary report the chief had requested from him. After she had returned and fallen to low-voiced gossip through the window with Pauline, Barrel had been sent back with a number of scribbled objections for Leibman to answer. Smith had spent all of five minutes thinking them up before Simonetta brought the original report. Westervault wondered how soon Barrel would return with the answers, because it would then probably be his turn to write her. He did not regard the idea with relish. Smith strolled out of his office. He halted to survey the nearly empty office with an air of vague surprise. Then saw Simonetta outside Pauline's cubicle. He went over to join the conversation. I should have walked out somewhere, thought Westervault. Now the door is completely blockaded. The magazine article turned dull immediately. Sure enough, in a few minutes Smith approached Westervault's corner. Who's on watch, Willie? He asked, attempting a jovial wink. Barrel, I think, answered the youth. Must be. She hasn't been around. She's been there quite a while, commented Smith. I have a feeling that it's time for a shift. How about wandering down there and edging in? What would I say, objective Westervault? He's probably dictating his remarks and wouldn't like me hanging around. Smith chewed on his lower lip. For the questions I sent him, he muttered thoughtfully, five minutes should have been enough. Goldilocks has been with him for over half an hour, but he must be tired of my face at Westervault. I don't have anyone else to send but you want me to think of an excuse for Pauline. Asking him to help with her homework would be pretty thin. Westervault thought it over. Parrish, in his present mood, was not likely to be of any help. Salmonetta had just on her stint and Joe was needed on the space set. It would have been nice if there were a message for Leidman to listen to, but that was wishful dreaming. All right, Mr. Smith, he surrendered. Maybe I can take along this article and ask if he's seen it yet. If he's taking an inventory or trying out something in the lab, I'll take my life in my hands and volunteer to help. Smith laughed. Can't be that bad, Willie, he said, slapping the other on the shoulder. Westervault was not so sure, but he folded the magazine open to the beginning of his article and went out. Pauline peered at him as he passed. Don't look like that, he said. You'll see me again, I hope. You might try looking a little more confident of that yourself, Salmonetta called after him. Westervault turned the corner and walked slowly down the hall, trying out more confident expressions as he went. None of them felt exactly right. Passing the spare office where the dead files were kept, he heard a sound. They must have come up here for something, he thought. That's why it seemed so long to Smithy. He had opened the door and taken one step inside before he realized that the room was dark. Without thinking, he reached out to flip the light switch. Beryl Austin leaped to her feet with a flash of thai that hardly registered on Westervault in the split second of his astonishment. Then he saw that she had not been alone on the sette that stood beside the door. Perish rose beside her. The suddenness of their movements and the ferocity of their combined stares had the impact of a stunning blow upon Westervault. The implications of the blonde's slightly disheveled appearance, however, were obvious. He could not, for a moment, think at all. Then he began to have a feeling that he ought to say something to cover his escape. Beneath that, somewhere surged the conviction that he had nothing to apologize for. In the face of such hostility and tension, it called for a lot of courage.  Westervault noted with a certain detachment that her voice had turned shrill. Not knowing of anything else to do, he stared as she tugged her dress into place. This seemed to outrage her more than anything he could have said. He also saw the gleam of Perish's teeth and the grimace was not even remotely a smile. The man took a step to place himself before Beryl. What do you think you're doing? demanded Perish with a good deal more feeling than originality. Westervault had been wondering what to say to that when it came, as was inevitable. A dozen half-expressed answers flitted through his mind. How did he get out of a thing like this, he asked himself desperately. You think it was me that did it? Before he could explore the implications of his choosing the words, did it, Beryl found her voice again. Get out of here, she shrilled. Who told you to come poking in? I heard a noise, said Westervault, conscious that his voice sounded odd. I thought it was Mr. Leidman. Do I look like Leidman? demanded Perish, not raising his voice as much as Beryl had. There wasn't any light, was there? Did you think he'd be sitting here in the dark? The possibility charged the atmosphere like static electricity. Actually, mere mention of it made Westervault feel better, because it sounded so much like what he might have found. How did I know, he retorted. I thought Beryl was with him. Why should I expect you? You said you weren't going to dig any further in here. Beryl had been smoothing her still perfect coiffer. Now she's stiffened as much as Perish. Westervault sensed that his choice of words might have been unfortunate. Well, who is with him? he demanded before they could say anything. The question galvanized Perish into action. He stepped forward to meet Westervault face to face. If you're so worried about that, why don't you go find him? he sneered. For my money, you two make a good match. Maybe I will, said Westervault hotly. You two don't seem to care about what's going on. If you'll just excuse me, I'll turn out the light and... Oh, cut out the speech making, requested Beryl. Get out of the door, Willie, and let me out of here. I'm tired of the whole incident. Now wait a minute, Beryl, protested Perish. Yes, said Westervault. You'd better check. Your lipstick has really smudged this time.  He took Beryl by the shoulders and pulled her back. She pulled herself free peevishly. Westervault leaned against the wall and curled a lip. Enough is enough, she said. Let me out of here. You forgot to smile, Westervault told Perish. The man turned on him and reached out to seize a handful of his shirt front. Westervault straightened up, alarmed, but willing to consider changing the smooth mask of Perish's face. Beryl was shrilling something about not being damn fools when she stopped in the middle of a word. Perish also grew still. The forearm Westervault had crossed over the hand grabbing at his shirt fell as Perish let him go. The man was staring over Westervault's shoulder. He looked almost frightened. Westervault looked around and a thrill shot through him like the shock of diving into icy water. Leibman was standing there, staring through him. When he looked again as he shrank instinctively away from the doorway he realized that the X-Baser was staring through all of them. After a moment he seemed to focus on Beryl.  Perish stepped back nervously and Westervault edged further inside the doorway to make room. Beryl did not seem to have heard. She gaped, hypnotized by the beautiful eyes set in the strong, tanned face. Leibman put the palm of one hand against Westervault's chest and shoved slowly. It was as well that the file cabinet behind the youth was nearly empty because it slid a foot along the floor as his back flattened against it. Leibman reached out his other hand and took Beryl gently by the elbow. She stepped forward, turning her head from side to side as if to seek reassurance from either Perish or Westervault but without completely meeting their eyes. Leibman led her into the hall and released her elbow. She started uncertainly at the corridor toward the main office. Leibman fell in a pace or two behind her. Westervault heard a gasp. He looked at Perish and realized that he had been holding his breath too. Then by mutual consent, they followed the others out into the hall. Listen, Willie, whispered Perish, watching the 20-foot gap between them and Leibman's broad shoulders. We have to see that she doesn't forget and try to leave. If he won't let me talk to her, you'll have to get her attention. Okay, I'll try, murmured Westervault. Look, I was really looking for him. I never meant to. I never meant to either, said Perish. Forget it. It was none of my business. I should have shut up and left. Tell her I'm sorry when you get a chance. She'll probably never speak to me again. He wanted if he could get Smith's permission to move his desk. On second thought, he wanted if he would come out of this with a desk to move. Sure she will, said Perish. She's really just a good-natured kid. He wasn't anything serious. You startled us, that was all. Barrel and Leibman turned the corner, leaving the two followers free to increase their pace. They rounded the corner themselves in time to see Leibman going through the double doors. It was too bad he came along when she was yelling to be let out, said Perish. He didn't understand. You mean he actually thought we were trying to keep her there against her will? Asked Westervault. Well, we were, I suppose, or at least I was. He doesn't seem to think any further than that in such situations. If someone is being held against his will, that's enough for Bob. Did you know Smitty had to post a bond for him? A bond? Repeated Westervault, what for? They caught him a couple of times, trying out his new gadgets around the city jail. I'll tell you about it sometime. Perish fell silent as they reached the entrance to the main office. Barrel had gratefully stopped to speak to the first person in sight, which happened to be Pauline. As Perish and Westervault arrived, she was offering to take over the switchboard for 20 minutes or so. Oh, I didn't mean he had to drop everything Pauline was protesting. I just meant, when you get the chance, she eyed Leibman curiously, then looked to the late arrivals. The silly thought that Joe Rosencrantz must feel awfully lonely across Westervault's mind, and he had to fight down a giggle. You really should get out of there for a while, advised Leibman, studying the size of Pauline's cubbyhole. Sit outside a quarter of an hour at least and let your mind spread out. Well, if it's really all right with you, Barrel. I'm only too glad to help, said Barrel rapidly. She wasted no time in rounding the corner to get out the door. Westervault closed his eyes. He found it easy to envision Pauline tangling with her on the way out and causing Leibman to start all over again. The girls managed without any such catastrophe. Pauline headed for the swivel chair behind the unused secretarial desk. You want to leave that door open, Leibman called to Barrel. If it should stick, there's hardly any air in there. You'd feel awfully cramped in no time. Thank you, said Barrel politely. She left the door open, sat down, and picked up Pauline's headset. From the set of her shoulders, it did not seem that much light conversation would be forthcoming from that quarter. Westervault stepped further into the office and saw that Smith was standing in his own doorway, rubbing his large nose thoughtfully. The youth guessed that Simonetta had signaled him. Parish cleared his throat with a little cough. Well, he said, I'll be in my office if anyone wants me. Rather than pass too close to Leibman, he retreated into the hall to use the outside entrance to his office. The ex-spacer paid no attention. Westervault decided that he would be damned if he would go through Parish's office and back into this one to get at his desk. He walked around the projection of the switchboard cubicle and sat down with his side his own place. He leaned back and looked about to discover that Leibman had gone over to say a few words to Smith. Pauline glanced curiously from Westervault to the two men, then began to shop among a shelf of magazines beside the desk of the vacationing secretary. After a few minutes, Leibman turned and went out the door. Westervault tried to listen for footsteps, but the resilient flooring prevented him from guessing which way the ex-spacer had gone. He saw Smith approaching and went to meet him. I've changed my mind, said the chief. For a little bit anyway, we'll leave him alone. He said he was sketching up some gizmo he wants to have built and needed peace and quiet. Did he say we were talking too loud? Asked Westervault, looking at the doorway rather than meet Smith's eye. No, that was all he said, answered Smith. There was a questioning undertone in his voice, but Westervault chose not to hear it. After a short wait, Smith asked Simonetta to bring her taper into his office. He mentioned that he hoped to phone for some technical information. Westervault watched them leave, then sank down on the corner of the desk at which Pauline was relaxing. Beryl turned around in her chair. Psst, Pauline, she whispered. Is he gone? They all left, except Willie, the girl told her.  The chair left in the office heard her turn the lock with a brisk snap. What's the matter with her, murmured Pauline? Nothing, said Westervault glumly. Why don't you take a nap or something? I'd like to, said Pauline. It's going on seven o'clock, and who knows when we'll get out of here?  I mean, don't bring us bad luck by talking about it. Take a nap and let me think. How are you big thinkers, jeered Pauline? What I'd really like to do is go down to the ladies room and take a shower. But you always kid me about Mr. Parrish maybe coming in with fresh towels for the machine. I lied to you, Pauline, said Westervault. The charwoman brings them. Well, I could always hope, giggled Pauline. Not tonight, said Westervault. Believe me, kid, you're safer than you'll ever be. End of chapter 13. Chapter 14 of D99 by H.B. Fife. This LibriVox recording is in public domain. Pauline came back in a quarter of an hour. Her youthfully translucent skin glowing, and her ash-blonde curls rearranged. She glanced through the window at Barrel, who was nervously punching a number for an outside call. What's going on? She asked Westervault, who sat with his heels on the center desk. Mr. Smith is calling a couple of engineers he knows, Simonetta told her. Westervault had just heard it when Simonetta had emerged with a tape to transcribe. He had started to mention that it might be better to phone a psychiatrist, but had bitten back the remark. For all I know, he reflected, they might take me away. Everything I remember about today can't really have happened. If it did, I wish it hadn't. He recalled that he had been phoned at home to hop a jet for London that morning. He had found the laboratory which had made the model of the light Smith was interested in, and been on his way back without time for lunch. Now that the jets were so fast, meals were no longer served on them, and he had had to grab a sandwich upon returning. Then there had been those poor fried eggs. That was all. I should have missed the return jet, he thought bitterly. I didn't know where I was well off. Why did I have to walk in there? I might have had the sense to go look in Bob's office first. He decided that Pauline, now chatting with Simonetta, looked refreshed and relaxed. Perhaps he ought to do the same. The idea, upon reflection, continued to appear attractive. Westervault rose and walked out past the switchboard. Barrel was too busy to see him. He made his way quietly to the restroom, which he found empty. He was rather relieved to have avoided everyone. At one side of the room was a door leading to a shower. The appointments of Department 99 were at least as complete as those of any modern business office of the day. Westervault stepped into a tiny antsy room, furnished with a skimpy stool, several hooks on the wall, and a built-in towel supplier. Prudently, he set the temperature for a hot shower on the dial outside the shower compartment and punched the button that turned on the water. Just in case all the trouble affected the hot water supply, he thought. As he undressed, he was reassured by the sight of steam inside the stall. Another thought struck him. He locked the outer door. He did not care for the possibility of having Leidman imagine that he was trapped in here. It would be just his luck to be assisted out into the corridor, naked and dripping.  He slid back the partly opaque to plastic doors and stepped with a sigh of pleasure under the hot stream. The dependence of it relaxed him to the point of feeling almost at peace with the world once more.  I'll set the air on cool later. He pushed the waterproof button on the inside of the stall to turn off the water, opened the narrow doors, and reached out to the towel dispenser. The towel he got was fluffy and large, though made of paper. He blotted himself off well before turning on the air jets in the stall to complete the drying process. Having dressed and disposed of the towel through a slot in the wall, he glanced about to see if he had forgotten anything. The shower stall had automatically aired itself, sucking all moisture into the air conditioning system, and looked as untouched as it had at his entrance. Westervault strolled out into the restroom proper, thankful that the lock and the anti-room door had not chosen that moment to stick. He stretched and yawned comfortably. Then he caught sight of his household air-blown hair in a mirror. He fished in his pocket for coins and a small vial of hairdressing from dispensers mounted on the wall. He took his time spraying the vaguely perfumed mist over his dark hair and combing it neatly. That task attended to. He stole a few seconds to study the reflection of his face. It was rather more square about the jaw than smiths, he thought, but he had to admit that the nose was prominent enough to challenge the chiefs. No one had thought to equip the washroom with adjustable mirrors, so he gave up twisting his neck in an effort to see his profile. There he said, with considerable satisfaction, now if I can hook another coffee out of the locker, it will be like starting a new day. Gosh, I hope it's a better one, too. He walked lightly along the corridor to the main office, exaggerating the slight resilience of the floor to a definite bounce in his step. Outside the office, he met Beryl coming out. He felt himself coming down on his heels immediately. Beryl eyed him enigmatically, glanced over his shoulder to check that he was alone, and swung away with the opposite wing. Westervelt hurried after her. Look, Beryl, he called. I wanted to say that is about before. Beryl turned the corner and kept walking. Wait just a second, said Westervelt. He tried to get beside her to speak to something besides the back of her blonde head, but she was a tall girl and had a long stride. He hesitated to take her by the elbow. Beryl stopped at the door to the library. Please take note, Willie, she said coldly, that the light is on inside and I am all alone. At least she spoke, thought Westervelt. I have come down here for a little peace and quiet, she informed him. I hope you didn't intend to learn how to read at this hour of the night. Aw, come on, protested Westervelt. It was an accident. Could I help it? Being the way you are, I suppose not, admitted Beryl judiciously.  I'm trying to say I'm sorry, said Westervelt, feeling a flush spreading over his features. I have to apologize anyway. It wasn't me in there, filing away in the dark. Beryl looked down her nose at him, as if he were a Missarian, asking where he could have his chlorine tank refilled. Is that the story you're telling around? She demanded icely. I'm not telling Westervelt realized he was beginning to yell and lowered his voice. I'm not telling any story around. Nobody knows anything about it, except you and I and Pete. Bob couldn't have seen anything. Beryl shrugged, a small disdainful gesture. Westervelt wondered why he had allowed himself to get into an argument over the matter, since it was obvious that he was making things worse with every word. I don't know why you should be so sore about it, he said. Even Pete said to me I should forget about it. Oh, you two have been talking it over, Beryl accused. Pretty clubby. Do you take over for him on other things, too? Westervelt threw up his hands. You don't seem to mind anything about it, except that I should know you were in there with him, he retorted. If he was so acceptable, why am I a disease? It could happen yet, said Beryl.  The trouble with you is you need a little loosening up. He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her toward him, slipping his left arm behind her back as she tried to kick his ankle. He kissed her. The result was spoiled by Beryl's turning her face away at the crucial instant. Westervelt threw back. The next thing he knew, lights exploded before his right eye. He had not seen her hand come up, or he would have ducked. He saw it as he stepped back, however. Despite a certain feminine delicacy, the hand clenched into a very capable little fist. Beryl took one quick stride into the library. I don't like to keep hinting around, she said, but maybe that will play itself back in your little mind. She slammed the door three inches from his nose. Westervelt raised the hand to open it, then changed his mind and felt gingerly of his eye. It hurt, but with the sort of surrounding numbness. Realizing that he could see after all, he looked up and down the corridor guiltily. It seemed very quiet. Right square in the peeper, he thought roofily. She couldn't have aimed that well. It must have been a lucky shot. I had to go in there and belt her. It was not something he really wanted to do. He could not foresee any pleasure or satisfaction in carrying matters to the extent of open war. You lost again, Willie, he argued. You might as well take it like a man. She got annoyed at something you said, like is not, and it was too late when you began. He prodded gently at his eye again and decided that the numb sensation was the tightening of scan over a growing mouse. He set off up the corridor past the main door with his face averted and hurried down to the washroom before someone should come along. Spying out the land through a cautiously open door, he discovered the place unoccupied. In the mirror, the eyes showed definite signs of blossoming. The eyebrow was all right, but the orb itself was bloodshot and tearing freely. Beneath it, the flesh above the cheekbone was pink and puffy. God, breathe Westerville. It'll be blue tomorrow. Probably purple and green, in fact, or does it take a day or two to reach that stage? He ran cold water into a basin and splashed it over his face, holding a palm full at a time against the damaged eye. When this did not seem sufficiently effective, he watered a soft paper towel, soaked it in water, and applied it until it lost its chill. Am I doing right, he wondered? I could never remember whether it's hot or cold you're supposed to use. Someone had told him, as nearly as he could recall, that either way helped, depending on when heat or cold was applied. Keep the blood from going into the tissues. That must be it. But if you're too late for that, then heat would keep it from stiffening. Now, the question is, did I start in time? He examined the eye. It did not feel too sore, but it was still red and slightly swollen. The flow of tears had stopped, so we decided there was little more he could do. He dried his face out into the corridor, blinking. He went to the laboratory door and opened it quietly. The room was dark and unoccupied. Westervelt swore to himself that if he stumbled over anyone this time, he would punch every nose he could reach without further ado. Unless he amended the intention, he ran into Leibman. He was squeamish about turning on a light which left him the problem of groping his way through the maze of tables, work benches, and stacks of cartons. He set down for future conversation and the argument was as normal as any other business. It too possessed a typical messy back room out of range of the front office. He had negotiated about half the course when he felt a cool breeze. At first, he thought it must come from an air conditioning diffuser, but it blew more horizontally. Someone must have opened a window, he decided, or perhaps broken one trying out a dangerous instrument. He succeeded in reaching the far wall where he felt around for the door leading to the communications room. This was over near the outside wall, but he reached it without bumping into more than two or three scattered objects. Once through the door, he could see better because a little light was diffused past the wire mesh enclosure around the power equipment. He walked along the short passage formed by this, turned a corner, and came inside of Joe Rosencrantz sitting before his screen. Hello, Joe, he greeted the operator. The other jumped perceptibly, looking around at the door. It's Willie, said Westerville. I came around the other way. He pleased to find that Rosencrantz had the room as dimly lighted as was customary among the TV men. Joe stared for a moment at him, and Westerville feared that the other's vision was too well adjusted to the light. I didn't think anybody but Leidman used that way much, said Rosencrantz. It's a shortcut, said Westerville evasively. He found a spare chair to sit in and inquired as to what might be new. Rosencrantz told him of putting through a few calls to planets near Trident, asking DIR men stationed on them to line up spaceships for possible use. Either to go after Harris, or to ship necessary equipment for plumbing the ocean. He offered to let Westerville scan the tapes of his traffic. That's a good idea, said the youth, gratefully. Even if I don't spot an opening, it will look like useful effort. Yeah, agreed the other. Time drags, doesn't it? Wonder how they're making out down in the cable tunnels. It can't last much longer. That's what this here Harris is saying, too, I should think. Now there's one guy who's really packed away. Well... They pulled some good ones around here, but I have a feeling about this one, insisted the operator. I bet 10-1 they won't spring Harris. Westerville took the tapes to a playback screen and dragged his chair over. I told Smitty they ought to offer to swap for him, he said. At the time, I meant it looked like the perfect way to unload undesirables. Come to think of it, though, I wouldn't mind going myself.  Westerville realized that he had nearly given himself away. It was for the chance to see the place, he said. Nobody else has ever seen these Tridentians. How else could somebody like me get a position as an interstellar ambassador? Maybe Harris wants the job for himself. He sure went looking for it. The phone buzzed quietly. Rosencrantz answered it, then said, It's for you. Westerville went to the screen. It was Smith. I thought you must have found a way out, Willie. Where did you get to? Westerville explained that he was looking at the tapes and was looking at the files with the background. I figured there was plenty of time for me to... He broke off as he saw Rosencrantz straighten up to focus in a call from space. Joe was receiving something right now. I'll let you know if it has anything to do with Trident. Department 99, Tara, the operator was saying when Westerville turned from the phone, as if the mere call signal had not satisfied the party at the other end. Department 99, Tara. There seemed to be a lot of action on the screen. Men were running in various directions in what appeared to be a large hall with an impressive stairway. Yolene, Rosencrantz flung over his shoulder. Tell Smithy. Mr. Smith said Westerville turning back to the phone screen. Joe says it's Yolene coming in. Maybe you'd like to see it yourself. Something looks wrong. Coming, said Smith, and the phone went dark. Westerville looked around to see that most of the running figures had hidden themselves. A voice was coming over, and he listened with the operator. Knocked apart, so I had to use one of the observation lenses they have planted around the embassy. He's shooting up the place good. I'm taping until someone gets here, said Rosencrantz. Better tell me what happened just in case. Yolene, thought Westerville. That would be, let me see, Gerson, the kidnap case. Do they mean that he's shooting them up? And after he left me with his mess in the calm room, he headed for the stairs, said the voice of the unseen operator. He seems to be trying to get out of the embassy. We don't know why. The boys got him there without any trouble. Was he all right? asked Rosencrantz, cocking in here at the door. He looked pretty sick as if he wasn't eating well. And he had a broken wrist. They took him along to the doctor with no trouble. Then the chief went up to see how he was and found Doc out cold on the floor. He set up a yell, naturally. Someone finally caught up with Gerson in the military attache's office. What did he want there? asked Rosencrantz. We don't know yet. He left a corpse for us that isn't answering questions. End of chapter 14. Chapter 15 of D99 by H.B. Fife. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15. In the building to which the two Terrans had brought him, Gerson crouched behind the ornate balustrade edging the mezzanine. He was near the head of the stairway and hoped to get nearer. A look down the hall behind him showed no unwary heads in view. He studied the sections of the hall below which he could see through the openings and the railing. There had been great scrambling about down there a moment earlier. So he was uneasy about showing himself. He had armed himself as chance provided, a rocket pistol of the only night manufacturer doubtless purchased as a souvenir and a sharp knife from a dinner tray he had come upon in one of the rooms he had searched. Because of his injury, he had to grip the knife between his teeth. Something bothered him about this arrangement. He had the paper thrust in his shirt. He held the rocket pistol in one hand. One hand was hurt, yet the only way left to hold the knife was in his teeth. It did not seem exactly right, but he had had no time to ponder. The Terrans were keeping him busy. In the building, he had seen four threes of Terrans. One, the medical worker, he had rendered helpless. Then he had gone to search for secrets, and that other one had seen him. By that time, he had found the rocket pistol. He had let that Terran dead, but others had come running. Something had told him to shoot up the communications equipment, although the Terran working it had escaped. He was somewhere behind Gerson, behind one of the many doors leading off that high bright corridor. Gerson was probably ahead of him, along the hall on the other side of the mezzanine. There was yet another hiding behind the opposite balustrade. Gerson wondered idly if the last one was armed. He tried to review the probable positions of those on the main floor. One had definitely run out the front door, which faced the bottom of the broad stairway about 30 feet away. There was a shallow ante room there, but Gerson had seen him all the way across it. Of the others, one had ducked into a chamber at the front of the main hall, and another had run back under cover of the stairway on the same side. And the remaining four were looking somewhere to the right, either behind the stairs or in adjoining chambers. He leaned closer to the balustrade in an effort to see more. In the act, his injured limb came into contact with the barrier and made him grimace in pain. The drug the Terran medical worker had shot into it was wearing off. Since he had made a slight noise already, Gerson crawled along about 10 feet until he was just beside the head of the stairs. Listen. Somewhere below, two of the embassy staff were talking cautiously. It might be a good time to catch them unawares. He rose and took a step toward the stairs. A voice that sounded artificially loud spoke in one or another of the lower chambers. It had a slight echo, making it nearly impossible for Gerson to determine the direction. The Terran who had ducked into the room on the left appeared, raising a weapon of some kind. Gerson blazed a rocket in his direction. The slim missile, the length and thickness of the two top joints of his thumb left a smoky trail just above the stairway railing and blew a large hole in the wall beside the doorway where the staff man had been standing. Somehow the fellow had leaped back in time to avoid the flying speck of metal and plaster. Gerson knelt behind the balustrade again, shaken by the sense of new pain and wondering at its source. He concentrated. After a moment he felt the wetness trickling down his left side. Some small object had grazed the flesh and he realized that it must have been a solid pellet projected by the weapon of the Terran shot. He knew that the Terrans had more dangerous weapons than that, but had been confident that they would dare nothing over-violent here within their own building. The pistol used against them must be an old-fashioned one or a keepsake. Possibly it was a mock weapon built for practicing at a target. He seemed to remember vaguely having handled such a thing in the past. He strained after the fleeting memory, clenching his teeth with the effort, but it was gone. So many memories seemed to be gone. All he was sure of was that he must get out of here with those papers. He checked the upper hall again before and behind. He looked across the open space for the Terran hiding like himself behind the balustrade, but could not find him. It might or might not be worthwhile to send a shot over there at random. If he missed, he might at least scare the fellow. The loud voice with a mechanical sound to it blared out from below. Gerson, it called.  We can see where you are. We want to help you. Gerson showed no reaction. Analyzing the statement, he reminded himself that one Terran had shot him. Not very seriously, it was true, but it was not in the nature of help. Either the voice lied or it had no control over the individual who had fired at him. He did not blame it for the presumable untruth since he was not deceived by it. It would not be preferable to kill the man who had shot him, but he must bear in mind that his main task was to get out of the building. Gerson called the voice again. We know you are injured.  We beg you to drop your weapon and let us help you. Gerson wondered what the voice meant by the expression sick. It was possible that someone had seen him wounded by the last shot or did they mean his sore limb?  The whole side of his face was sore, but the skin of his cheek no longer bled, so it was a matter of opinion whether he was sick on that account. The voice must mean the last wound when it called him sick. That meant that the Terran he had shot at was the voice that there was another Terran in the room with him. Gerson did not think that any of the others could have seen. Some doubt at the back of his mind struggled to suggest an oversight, but he knew of none. He peered once more between the balusters and this time he saw a motion, a mere shadow across the way. Instantly he stood up and launched a rocket at the spot. It streaked on its way and exploded immediately against one of the uprights. Gerson regretted fleetingly that it had not gone through when struck against the wall beyond, which would have accounted for the Skull King Terran with a good deal of certainty. As the baluster disintegrated, leaving stubs at top and bottom, Gerson started down the stairs. Yells sounded from below. He threw one leg up to mount the stair railing, leaned back along it and let himself slide. The rocket pistol waving wildly at arms linked in his left hand helped him balance. He reached the landing at the middle of the stairs in one swoop. The human at whom he had shot reappeared in the same doorway. Gerson rolled to his left, felt both feet head upon the landing and let go of another missile. It was too late. The Terran had not even lingered to fire back. It seemed almost like a faint to distract. Gerson bled the mechanical voice. Gerson, Gerson, shattered other voices. They came from many directions and he was unable to comprehend them all. He reached a point near the bottom of the stairway, running three steps at a time when a louder yell directed his attention to the doorway on his right. Without breaking his stride, he whipped his left hand across his body and fired a rocket. He had a glimpse of the figure dodging aside before the smoke and dust of the explosion told him he had nicked the edge of the doorway. It seemed to him that he must have shot the Terran as well, and he let his eye linger there an instant as he reached the floor of the hall. Thus he saw the figure reappear and was in position to fling two more shots with animal quickness. The figure was blown straight backwards this time, but Gerson had time to realize that there had been no head on it when it had been thrust out. His first shot must have done that. All told, he had wasted three missiles on a dummy. Then the loop of rope fell about him and he knew why he had been lured into facing this direction. He tried to bring the rocket pistol to bear on the three Terrans running at him from behind the stairway. The fourth at the end of the rope heaved Gerson off his feet. He crashed down upon his sore limb, letting out a groan at the impact. One of the runners dove headlong at him, batting at the pistol as he slid past on the polished floor. Gerson felt the weapon knocked out of his grasp. It rattled and scraped along the floor out of reach, but he kicked the one who had done it in the head. Two of the Terrans were trying to hold him down now. He got the knife from his mouth into his left hand, let a Terran see it, then bit him viciously on the wrist. The Terran let go and Gerson found it simple to neither remaining one in the groin. He rolled over to get a knee under him, pushed himself up with a fist gripping the knife, and saw Terrans running at him from all directions.  Gerson recognized him as the medical worker. The men carried a hypodermic syringe. Unreasoning terror swept through Gerson. He knew that he must, at all costs, avoid that needle. He rolled around to slash the men coming up behind him. The nearest fell back warily. Put it away, Gerson, he said. We don't want to hurt you, man.  What's the matter? asked another more softly. We can see that you're not normal. What did those bastards do to you? Gerson looked from side to side, seeing them closing in, but unable to spot an opening for a charge. Just listen to me a minute, said the medical worker. He made the mistake of holding the hypodermic out of sight this time. Too late. Gerson, talk to me. Say something. Whatever the trouble is, we'll help you. It was the only opening. Gerson took a careful, hesitant step toward him. Then another. He held up his damaged limb. Yes, your wrist is broken, said the Terran. I was going to put a cast on it for you. Remember? Now just relax, and we'll take care of... He saw Gerson's eyes and leaped back. The knife swept up in a vicious arc that would have disemboweled him. Without wasting the motion, Gerson slashed down and left at another as he plunged forward. The point grazed an upflung arm, drawing a startled curse from the victim. Tackle him, shouted one of the Terrans. Careful, he's already hurt bad enough, cautioned another. Gerson tried to faint and throw his weight in the opposite direction, but his legs would not obey him. He recovered from the slip only to have one of the men push him from behind. Someone clamped a tight hold on his left arm as he staggered. A moment later, they twisted the knife out of his grasp and bore him to the floor. He kicked in effectively and then caught one of them by surprise with a butt. The man recoiled, blood spurting already from his nose. He brought his fist around, despite warning yells, and clipped Gerson on the temple.  Get that rope over here.  Just hold him still. You try it, invited one of those holding Gerson pinned. I think he's weakening, said another. Watch out, he may be playing possum. The talk seemed to come from far away. Gerson felt them tie his ankles together. They hesitated about his hands. One was injured. One voice suggested tying his left wrist to the stairway railing, but it was decided that they could watch him well enough as long as he could not run. The weight lessened as those pinning him arose to look to their own bruises. Gerson was vaguely surprised to discover that all of them were off him. He still felt as if great weight were holding him pressed against the floor. He found it difficult to catch his breath. They had taken the papers from his shirt, he noted. One of the Terrans passed them to a man in a dark uniform, who began to leaf through them worriedly. A Terran came in through the front door. Have you got him? The newcomer asked. That helicopter is still floating around up there. I've been watching it for half an hour with the nightglasses. They sure as hell are waiting for something, and there isn't anyone else in this neighborhood they could be interested in, said a deeper voice. Well McLean, what did you let him get his hands on from your secret file? Gerson rolled over quietly and started to drag himself along the floor. He'd actually moved a yard before they noticed him. They were gentle about turning him on his back again. The discussion about the papers was dropped while the medical worker cut his shirt away from the bleeding wound in his side. Hushed comments were made, but Gerson paid no attention. He was concerned with the fact that one of the Terrans had planted a foot between his legs, above the rope around his ankles, so that he was quite securely anchored to the spot. Looks like a broken rib besides, said the Terran, examining him. Do you think we could get him upstairs? I'm no doctor, said the deeper voice, but even I can see you'd never make it in time. The voice came closer, though the vision in Gerson's eyes was blurring. Tell me boy, what happened? How did they make you do it? What do they want? Gerson, said the man in the dark uniform. Did you know what you were after when you took these papers? He was a dark blur at a Gerson, who felt as if the weight on his chest had been increased. His lips were dry. He thought it would be nice to have a little water, but could not find words to ask. The voice was flinging a question at the dark blur. Why no, sir, said the Terran with the papers. Nothing important at all. Just a few old shipping lists. A record of the planetary motions in this system that anybody could obtain. And an article on shortcuts to learning the Yolenite language. I think I had the batch lying around the top of my desk. Why did he take them? Someone asked. Damn defiant though. You fellas had me scared to death. From what you said, I thought he might have pinched the deadly top secret code in my personal address book to boot. Are you getting this? Are you making a tape for Terra? Oh, right out, eh? Scrambled, I hope. It's not the kind of thing to publicize to the galaxy. The mechanical voice boomed in the background. Gerson paid it no attention. He felt the doctor's hands touching the old injections and heard the man swearing. Whoever was holding his left arm was actually squeezing and stroking his hand.  That's what they must have started with, said the doctor. In the end, they put an awful mental twist into him. Poor guy. The doctor said something to the dark blur. Those little bastards had big ideas, but they won't catch a snapping with any more spies, conditioned or not. Now maybe they'll read my reports on Terra. Gerson opened his mouth to breathe better. He rolled his head from side to side on the hard floor. Somewhere deep inside him, a little silent voice was crying, frightened. He had failed and there would be no other chance. The little voice took leave of its fear to laugh. They had not let him remember how to read. And so he died, a tall, battered Terran lying on a hard floor and grinning faintly up at the men who had helped him die. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of D99 by H.B. Fife. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16. In the communications room of Department 99, Westervilt could actually hear people around him breathing, so hushed was the gathering. Someone was leaning on his shoulder, he was reluctant to attract attention by moving. Static sounds and the clicking and humming of various mechanisms about the room suddenly became unnaturally noticeable. Glancing this way and that, he discovered that the entire staff had drifted in during the transmission from Yolene. There were at least two people behind him, to judge by the breathing and the weight on his shoulder. So intense had been the excitement that he did not remember anyone but Smith arriving. He saw better to the left than to the right and became conscious of his eye again. Westervilt had drawn up his chair behind into the left of the operator, and Smith had perched himself on the end of a table behind Joe. Beside the chief stood Simonetta with barrel behind her. Parish was to Westervilt's left, so he concluded that Leibman and Pauline must be behind him. The grip on his right shoulder felt small to be Leibman's, but he could not see down at the necessary angle because of the puffiness under his eye. The broad-shouldered stocky man on the screen moved to the stairway and looked up, straight into their eyes. Is this still going out to Tara, Simmons? He asked. He had dark hair with a crinkly wave in it, which permitted him to appear less disheveled than the men about him or standing over the body of Gerson. He pulled out a large white handkerchief to wipe the streaming perspiration from his face. Yes, sir, answered the voice of the distant operator. You're looking right into the concealed pickup. I'll switch the audio from Tara to the loudspeaker system and you can talk to them. Westervilt glanced at the other men in the embassy on Yolene. Several of them obviously suffered from minor injuries. All of them wore expressions of tragedy. One man in his shirt sleeves was standing with his shoulders against the base of the stairway, head thrown well back, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. Another with his back to the lens knelt beside the body of Gerson. A couple of others looking helpless were lighting cigarettes. I suppose you saw the end of it, the man on the stairs said. Smith cleared his throat and leaned over Joe Rosencrant's shoulder. We saw, he answered. I, is there any doubt that he's dead? The men on the stairs looked to the group around the body. The doctor shook his bandaged head sadly. As much from strain and exhaustion as anything else, he reported. The man belonged in a hospital, but some uncanny conditioning drove him on. In the end, his heart gave out. The stocky man turned back to the lens. You heard that. Except for one man who didn't know at the time what was going on. We did the best we could. I'm Delaney, by the way, in charge here. Smith identified himself and agreed that Gerson had looked to be unmanageable. Do you think you can find what they used? He asked. I gather that you never got anything out of him since the time you picked him up. Did that part of it go according to plan? Oh, yes, said Delaney.  It looked used, too. But now I'm wondering if they let him cut his way out. I wouldn't doubt it, said Smith gloomily. I'm afraid we didn't look very bright on this one. We seem to have underestimated the Yolenites badly. There isn't too much information on them available here. Nor here to tell the truth, said Delaney. Which reminds me, our Captain McLean has been after me for a long time to put more pressure on the DIR about that. Could you duplicate your tape and send them a copy? It would save us another transmission and you might like to add your own comments. Smith promised to have it done. He also offered to soothe Captain McLean to send an extra copy to the Space Force. There seemed to be nothing more to say. The scene on the screen blanked out as the distant operator spoke to Rosencrantz on audio only from his own shot-up office. Then it was over. Westervilt, aware that the pressure on his shoulder was gone, looked around. Leidman had his arm about a shaken Pauline. The X-spacer's expression was blank, but the hardness of his eyes made the youth shiver. For a second, he thought he'd detected a slight resemblance to the man who had come bounding down the stairs on Yolen, leaving crisscross trails of rocket smoke in the air. That's crazy, he thought the next instant. And he lost the resemblance. He blinked, fingered his tender eye and looked around at the others. Everyone was subdued. Staring at the blank and quiet receiver or at the floor, Westervilt was surprised to see that Beryl was crying. She raised a forefinger to scrub the tears from her cheek. Hesitantly, Westervilt took the neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out. Beryl scrubbed the other cheek, looked at the handkerchief without raising her eyes to his and accepted it. She blotted her eyes, examining the cloth and whispered, Sorry, Willie, I think I got makeup on it. Smith stirred uncomfortably at the whisper. He stood up and spoke one short word with a depth of emotion. Then he kicked the leg of the table to relieve his feelings. Rosencrant swiveled around on his chair, waiting to see if any other calls were to be made. Smith took a deep breath. You'll make copies of the tape when you can, Joe? Sure, said the operator sympathetically. Well, said Leidman at the rear of the group. That's another one lost. Tomorrow we'll open a permanent file on Yolene, as Pete suggests. Yes, I imagine they'll give us more business, agreed Parish. Leidman growled. I'll give them the business next time, he threatened. Well, that kind of damps the pile for tonight. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm in no mood now to be clever. Smith straightened up abruptly. Now, now wait a minute, he splattered. I mean, we all feel pretty low, naturally. Still, this wasn't the main... serious as this was, we were trying to push on this other case to get a start anyway. Here we go again, thought Westervelt. Shall I try to trip him up if anything happens? Or shall I just get out of the way? He recalled the man in the embassy on Yolene, holding a stained handkerchief to his bloody nose, and measured the size of his own with the tip of a forefinger. On the other hand, if there should be a melee, he would certainly cover a little item like a puffy eye. He wondered if he would have the guts to poke out his head at the proper instant, and was rather afraid that he would. Parrish was murmuring about sticking to the job in hand, trying to support Smith without arousing the antagonism of an open argument. Lightman seemed unconvinced. Why don't we all have a round of coffee? suggested Simonetta. If we can just sit down a few minutes and pull ourselves together. Smith looked at her gratefully. Yes, he said. That's the least we can do, Bob. This was a shock to us all, but the girls felt it more. I don't believe any of them wants to hit the street all shaken up like this. Right, Psy? I would like to sit down somewhere," said Simonetta. Here exclaimed Wester about leaping up. He had forgotten that he had been rooted to the chair since before the others had crept into the room during the transmission from Yolene. Never mind, Willie, Simonetta said. I didn't mean I was collapsing. Come on, Barrel, let's see if there's any coffee or tea left. Wait for me, said Pauline. I've got to take this phone off the outside line anyway. Smith stepped forward to plant one hand behind Lightman's shoulder blade. I could use a martini myself, he called after the girls. How about the rest of you? Pete? Willie? Paris seconded the motion. Wester about said he would be right along and trailed them slowly to the door. He paused to look back, and he and Joe exchanged brow-mopping gestures. The rest of them were trooping along the corridor without much talk. He ambled along until the men, bringing up the rear, had turned the corner. Then he ducked into the library. He fingered his eye again. Either it was a trifle less sore, or he was getting used to it. He still hesitated to face an office full of people and good lighting. There must be something around here to read, he muttered. He walked over to a stack of current magazines. Most of them were technical in nature, but several dealt with world and galactic news. He took a few steps to his seat at the long table and began to leave through one. It must have been about 15 minutes later that Simonetta showed up, bearing a sealed cup of tea and one of coffee. So that's where you are, she said. I was taking something to Joe and thought maybe I'd find you along the way. Westerville deduced that she had phoned the operator. You can have the coffee, she said, setting it beside his magazine. Joe said he'd rather have tea this time around. Westerville looked up. Simonetta saw his eye and pursed her lips. Well, how does it look? Asked Westerville glumly. Kind of pretty. If I remember the ones my brothers used to bring home, it will be ravishingly beautiful by tomorrow. That's what I was afraid of, said Westerville. Simonetta laughed. She set the tea aside and pulled out a chair. I don't think it's really that bad, Willie, she told him. I was only fooling. It shows, though, huh? Oh, yes, it shows. That's what I like about you, sigh, said Westerville. You don't ask nasty embarrassing questions like how it happened or which door closed on me. Following which, he told her nearly the whole story, leaving out only the true origin of the quarrel. He suspected that Simonetta could put two and two together, but he meant to tell nobody about the start of it. Oh, Willie, she said with a grin at the conclusion. If you had to fall for a blonde, why couldn't you pick little Pauline? I guess you're right. Now, don't take that so seriously, too. Barrel's a good sword on the whole. And to dare to, this will all blow over. Come on with me to see Joe. Then we'll go back and say you got something in your eye. But when? Oh, during the message from Yolene. You didn't want to bother anybody at the time, so you foolishly kept rubbing it until he got sore. That's all right, said Westerville. But Barrel knows different. If she opens her mouth, I shall personally punch her in the eye, declared Simonetta. She giggled up the idea, and he found himself grinning. They went along the corridor to deliver the tea to Rosencrantz and then returned to the main office. An air of complete informality prevailed, a reaction from the scene they had witnessed. There was a good deal of wandering about with drinks, sitting on desks, and in consequential chatter. No one seemed to want to talk shop, and Westerville guessed that Smith was just as pleased to be able to kill some time. He himself quietly slipped around the corner to his own desk, where he propped his heels up and sipped his coffee. Westerville listened as Parrish and Smith told a few jokes. The stories tended to be more ironic than funny, and no one was expected to laugh out loud. Pauline from her switchboard buzzed the phone on Simonetta's desk, since most of those present had gravitated to the end of the office. Smith looked around in the middle of an account of his struggles with his radio-controlled lawnmower. Want to take that, Willie? He said with a bare suggestion of a wink. Westerville lifted a hand in his scent. He climbed out of his chair and went to the phone on Parrish's desk, where he would be as nearly private as possible. Who is it, Pauline? He asked when she came on. It's Joe. He wants to talk to Mr. Smith. Give it here on number 7, said Westerville. The boss is talking. Pauline blanked out and was replaced by the communications man. Rose and Krantz showed a flicker of surprise at the sight of Westerville. Smith is in a crowd, murmured the youth. Something up? Not much, maybe, said the other. A message came in by commercial TV. I guess they didn't think it was too urgent, but I'll give you the facts if you think Smithy would like to know. Hold on, said Westerville. Let's see, where does Barrel keep a pen? He dug out a scratch pad and something to scribble with and nodded. One of our own agents said, Joe. Named Robertson. Signed this. You've seen his reports, I guess. Yeah, sounds familiar. It says, after reading between our standard code expressions, that two spacers and a tourist were convicted of inciting revolution on Epsilon Indy 2. They gave the names and all, which I taped. That's practically in our backyard, said Westerville. Maybe he just wants to alert us, but the DIR ought to be working on that publicly. Sure there wasn't any hint it was urgent? No, and like I said, it came by commercial relay. Okay, the boss has enough on his mind at the moment. Let's figure out having a tape for him to look at in the morning. I'll find a chance to mention it to him, so he'll know about it. All right? All right with me, grinned Rosencrantz. If anything goes wrong, I'll refer them to you. Be prepared to have your other eye split in.  The youth waited until he caught Smith's eye and shook his head to indicate the unimportance of the call. He wondered if he ought to take time to phone downstairs for a report on the situation. It did not strike him as worth the risk with all the people in the same room. He saw a barrel strolling his way and rose from her chair. That's all right, Willie, she said calmly, setting her packaged drink on the desk. I just wanted to give you back your handkerchief. She produced it from the purse lying on her desk and said, Thanks again. I'm sorry about the makeup marks. Forget it, said Westerville. I'm sorry about the eye, too, said Barrel, raising her eyes for the first time to examine the damage. It doesn't look as bad as Si said. Well, that's a comfort anyway. I got something in it and rubbed it too hard, you know. Yes, she told me, said Barrel. To tell the truth, Willie, I didn't know I could do it. Ah, it was a lucky swing, uttered Westerville. Yes, I... well, you might say I was a little upset. I'm sorry I started it all, said Westerville. How about letting me buy you a lunch to make up? Barrel shrugged, looking serious. I don't mind if we make it Dutch. It was as much my fault. I hope we're both around to go to lunch tomorrow. It gives me the creeps. What does? asked Westerville. The way Mr. Leidman looks. Something about his eyes.  End of Chapter 16