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Read Ebook: Delay in Transit by Wallace F L Floyd L Sibley Don Illustrator
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Ebook has 841 lines and 66203 words, and 17 pages
"Quiet," said Dimanche. "He's verbalizing about you."
"He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and ask me for a light."
"I don't think so," answered Dimanche. "He's whispering: 'Poor devil. I hate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'."
"He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn't there any clue?"
"None at all," admitted Dimanche. "He's very close. You'd better turn around."
Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made him feel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.
A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of the alley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailant shot by.
"Hey!" shouted Cassal.
Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feeling that no one was going to come to his assistance.
"He wasn't expecting that reaction," explained Dimanche. "That's why he missed. He's turned around and is coming back."
"I'm armed!" shouted Cassal.
"That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you."
Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a few seconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projected stiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgical instrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered its function, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.
"Twenty feet away," advised Dimanche. "He knows you can't see him, but he can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare. What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keep you posted below the level of his hearing."
"Stay on him," growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself against the wall.
"To the right," whispered Dimanche. "Lunge forward. About five feet. Low."
Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects of a miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately, his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance, the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. His opponent gasped and broke away.
"Attack!" howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. "You've got him. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He's afraid."
Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; some didn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponent fell to the ground, gasped and was silent.
Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay near the water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn't move.
"Heartbeat slow," said Dimanche solemnly. "Breathing barely perceptible."
"Then he's not dead," said Cassal in relief.
Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozed from cuts on the face.
"Respiration none, heartbeat absent," stated Dimanche.
Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, but would the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have to investigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they would question him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but what could he do about it?
Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney 21?
Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom of this. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?
"I don't know," replied Dimanche irritably. "I can interpret body data--a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat."
Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articles of no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amount of money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. A picture of a woman and a small child posed against a background which resembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.
Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemed to be no connection between this dead man and his own problem of getting to Tunney 21.
Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward the boulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.
He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him. Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainly trying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as he was forced to the ground.
He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footsteps rushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escaping by way of water.
Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer in sight.
"Interpret body data, do you?" muttered Cassal. "Liveliest dead man I've ever been strangled by."
"It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the basic functions of their body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I checked him, he had no heartbeat."
He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.
Something, however, was missing--his wallet.
The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle. Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.
It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police. Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It contained more money than his wallet had.
Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for another tab.
A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell. Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word, STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.
The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed on the door.
TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor
It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.
With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.
Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.
A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be available for consultation."
Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he asked. "It's merely a matter of information."
"We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily. "I can't give you any information until you comply with them."
"Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to the first counselor."
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