Collected Short Fiction, page 449
There were a few honeymooning couples aboard ship too, for Dyrain was considered an ideal honeymoon spot for anyone who could afford the trip. It wasn’t hard to recognize the honeymooners, of course. When they came out of their cabins at all, they stuck close together, looking faintly ill-at-ease and happy all at the same time.
About ten percent of the passengers were travelling alone. There were ten or fifteen rich young playboys of the type Malin was pretending to be, and there were about twenty single women, ranging in age from twenty-one to sixty-one or thereabouts. It was deemed excellent business policy to foment shipboard romances, and so Malin found himself thrown in contact with these women fairly frequently, whenever the ship’s social director could arrange it.
He played his part to the hilt, dancing gaily, drinking, spending money without care. After all, if he ran short he could always wire an Intelligence contact-man for more.
Malin circulated very thoroughly through the passenger group, getting to know as many as he could. It was part of his job. After all, there was no telling which one or ones of them happened to be Denebian couriers,. on their way to Dyrain with Terran military secrets to relay back to the enemy worlds.
It could be almost any of them—or it could be none. Perhaps the courier was Florence Cottrell, the black-haired divorcee who seemed so free with her favors. Perhaps it was fat old Ben Marshall, the widowed grain-merchant; perhaps the Donovans, who were both twenty-two, newly married, and not anxious to talk to anybody but each other.
Maybe Roy Buckley, Princeton ’84, making an oat-sowing trip on his father’s oil money, was carrying minimicrofilms of Terran documents with him. Or it could be the Brysons, loud and noisy and forty-five-ish, making their very first trip off Earth and making sure everybody aboard ship found out about it.
It could be any of them, or none. The Denebians could disguise their spy as well as Earth could disguise its counterspy, after all. Malin knew he would simply have to bide his time, keeping his eyes open, and watch and see. Jumping to premature conclusions might turn out to be fatal for him and disastrous for the Terran cause.
THE landing came off right on schedule—June 11, 2785, on the Galactic Absolute Calendar, which was pegged to Earth’s own twenty-four hour day. Throughout all of the civilized galaxy, including the Denebian sector, the Galactic Absolute Calendar was in use. It made for less confusion to have every planet keeping time by the arbitrarily-designated Terran Second.
The Song of Altair emerged from hyperspace at the proper checkpoint and made the planetary landing with its auxiliary jets. It was mid-afternoon when the great ship came finally to rest on the landing apron at the starport of Dyrain Bor, the largest city of Dyrain and the only one fully equipped to handle a ship of the size of the Song of Altair.
“Terran tourists this way, please,” a crewman said, and Malin and his fellow passengers were led through the brightly lit corridors of the starport terminal to the immigration desks of the Dyrainna government. The journey took them outdoors for a short stretch. The day was warm and mild, with the temperature perhaps seventy-five or eighty and the humidity low. A gentle breeze drifted in over the starport, carrying the alien perfumes of strange forms of life. Overhead hung the sun, a golden-red ball whose bronze beams curiously altered colors and hues.
Dyrainna moved busily to and fro in the starport area. Malin studied them with interest. They were compactly-built humanoids, no more than five feet tall, with shimmering quick-moving eyes, set wide and apparently functioning independent of each other. Their noses were downswept beaks, their mouths wide and drooping. Most of them were a dark purple in color, though the range of color spread from light blue to a near-black.
It was possible to identify the castes, too. In the short walk Malin saw none of the administrators, but he knew they would be identified by the skull-crest of bright feathers. The priests, of which a few were visible, wore necklaces of brightly-polished silver coins as well as colorful head-crests. The merchant caste was marked by its clothing, which was loud of color and voluminous of cut, while the commoners, the members of the fourth caste, wore no crests nor coins and simple drab clothes.
But it was the untouchables who drew the whispered comments from the tourist party as it passed through the open area. Malin saw five or six of these unfortunates, clad in miserable rags, walking in a dismal shambling gait toward no particular destination. They seemed to be without hope, without life even, simply emaciated walking corpses shunned by all.
They walked alone, not even keeping company with each other. Their bodies were shrunken from poverty and their eyes were turned toward the ground. Once Malin saw a merchant-caste member approach within a dozen feet of one of the pariahs and toss him a glittering coin. The pariah scooped it up without a word, and continued on his slow way.
“This way, please,” their guide called to them.
They entered the customs shed, where their papers were checked through rapidly and their visas approved. A crisp-mannered English-speaking Dyrainna of the highest caste handled the procedure. Commoners lurked at the far end of the customs shed, ready to help out with carrying luggage in return for the Terran coins that served as legal currency throughout the galaxy.
When it was Malin’s turn to go through the entry routine, the Dyrainna at the desk said, in a clear and un-accented English, “Are you travelling independently, Mr. O’Connor?”
Malin shook his head and smiled. “I’m supposed to report to Terran Tours, Inc. They’re handling my itinerary.”
The Dyrainna nodded briskly. “Very good, sir. The Terran Tours coach is just outside to your left. If you’ll give your luggage voucher to me, I’ll see to it that your bags reach you safely.”
Malin surrendered the slip and passed through the shed and outdoors. A long green motor-coach of alien design waited there. Inscribed on it were the words TERRAN TOURS, INC. in English, and underneath it a series of bird-scratchings that probably were the same words in the native language of Dyrain.
MOST of the new arrivals from the Song of Altair had arranged their trip through the main office of Terran Tours, and so were all staying at the hotel operated by the travel company in Dyrain Bor. The motor-coach was greeted outside the hotel by a plump, pink-faced Earthman of about fifty, who met them as they stood in a huddled group waiting to be led to the next stop.
“May I have your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen?” he asked, holding up his hands. “Thank you. My name is Robinson, and I’m the local representative of Terran Tours, Inc. Welcome to the pleasure-world of Dyrain, one and all! From here until the moment you blast off for your next port of call, I’ll be helping you each and all to enjoy yourselves on Dyrain. First thing of all is to get you settled in your rooms. If you’ll all come with me, please—”
It was a group of about fifty. Malin followed along, finding himself walking next to Florence Cottrell as they entered the hotel lobby.
“It’s a lovely place, isn’t it!” the divorcee chattered happily. “I mean the planet and the hotel too, of course! Weren’t those pariahs picturesque! If I only had my camera out in time!”
With an enthusiasm that he did not feel, Malin agreed. “They’re just skin and bones. It must be a terrible life, being an untouchable.”
“Oh, they don’t mind, I guess. It’s their station in life, and they accept it.”
Together they entered the hotel lobby. It was big and well furnished, and occupied mostly by Earthmen, though there were a few native servants scattered around—and, Malin noticed with some surprise, a pair of untouchables squatting on the plush carpet with begging-bowls at their sides. It was startling to see the pariahs in these luxurious surroundings. Evidently there was a taboo against restricting their wanderings.
At the desk, Malin picked up his room assignment and was told that his luggage would be delivered to his door. Florence Cottrell was given the room next to his; Malin whispered if Terran Tours, Incorporated had arranged that, as a possible method of starting a romance between unmarried members of the group.
He noticed other familiar faces from the ship being assigned to rooms. There was burly Ben Marshall, badgering a bellhop about something, and there were the honeymooning Donovans, smiling nervously at each other and holding hands tightly. Elsewhere he saw Roy Buckley chatting with one of the girls from the ship, and the Brysons having an argument with each other.
Malin started to head for the gravshaft, with Florence Cottrell still tagging along. Suddenly she said, “Oh, excuse me! I must give something to that beggar!”
She darted across the lobby, moving well despite the six-inch spikes on her shoes, and unsnapped her purse. Malin saw a coin flash in her hand and drop with a clink into the begging bowl of one of the squatting crosslegged untouchables. The pariah made no gesture of thanks, did not even look up.
Returning, she said, “Silly of me, but I always do what the guidebooks say. It’s supposed to be terribly good luck to give alms to the pariahs here!”
THE room they gave him was about what could be expected of a tourist hotel—that is, superficially decked out to seem alien, but actually not very much different from a hotel room back on Earth. There was a molecular bath and a washstand, and a polarized window; the lighting was by modern chemoluminescence. All very Earthlike indeed.
But alien features had been slapped on the surface. The room was decorated in a Dyrainna pattern that was hard on the eyes, a series of concentric ellipses, slightly lopsided, that dwindled away to nothingness—each of them a different color, and a color that by Terran standards clashed violently with its neighbor. A caged bird sat in one corner of the room, as was traditional in every Dyrainna household.
Malin studied the bird. It was reptilian-looking, with a full set of teeth and beady green eyes; its feathers were many-colored and somewhat greasy. As he approached, it parted its huge black beak and emitted a harsh keep-away kind of sound. He noticed that the cage was sealed by a radionic lock, to prevent curious tourists from releasing the obviously dangerous creature.
A pair of incense-burners stood on the clothes-dresser. The tour people had left a thick folder of maps on the table, along with a guidebook in case he did not have one. Very thoughtful of them, Malin decided.
A timid knock sounded at the door. Malin opened it and found a very small Dyrainna standing outside, with his luggage.
“O’Connor-haai?”
“That’s right,” Malin said. He spoke English even though a knowledge of the Dyrainna language had been hypnotically instilled into him. A stockbroker from South Boston, Connecticut, was not expected to understand the language of a planet located several dozen light-years from Earth.
The alien boy carried his baggage inside and deposited it next to the bed. He stood waiting; Malin grinned and handed him a quarter-credit piece. The guidebook had said that the Dyrainna accepted Terran money even more readily than they did their own.
“Thank you very muchly,” the boy said in halting English. He gestured with respect and then popped out of the room.
Malin unpacked quickly. His thoughts were of his mission. Somehow he had to uncover what was probably a skillfully-operated chain of spy couriers. He had no clues at all, except the information he had been given at the outset of his journey.
That was not much. A known Denebian spy had been captured a month before by Terran counterintelligence men, and in the course of their interrogation they had learned only that Dyrain served as a charing-house for secret information. Somehow spies from the Terran area came to Dyrain and passed on their information to Denebians who carried it back into the enemy zone.
Indications were that some of the tourists who visited Dyrain from Earth were actually Denebian spies. But which ones, Malin wondered, and how will I detect them?
He finished unpacking. The roomphone rang, and he switched it on. The jovial features of the Terran Tours man, Robinson, appeared on the tiny black-and-white phone screen.
“Everything all right, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Fine,” Malin said.
“Glad to hear it. I’m calling all of the new arrivals to make sure they’re having no difficulties.”
“You people really believe in service, don’t you?” Malin said.
Robinson chuckled. “We like to make our guests feel at home no matter what. world they’re on. I wanted to let you know that the first meal will be served in about an hour, in the hotel dining room. Do you have any particular food allergies?”
“Not a one.”
“Fine, fine! There’ll be Terran food available, by the way, in case the native stuff doesn’t appeal to you. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Everyone does!”
AN hour later he was in the ornately furnished hotel dining room, having changed into the sort of costume Paul O’Connor was likely to wear but which privately filled Lloyd Malin with horror. It consisted of a fashionable blue cape over yellow tights and a spangled vest. He had stopped off at the hotel bar for a drink of kiezz first. As he had been told, it cost only half a credit a glass—a far cry from the five-credit tab he had paid at the Antarctica Starport.
In the dining room he found he had been seated at a table with Roy Buckley and a girl named Sarah, the Brysons, and Florence Cottrell. Robinson was circulating among the tourists, making sure all the new arrivals were enjoying themselves. Dyrainna waiters were bringing food to the tables. A bowl of mild wine sat near Malin’s plate, and he poured some; it helped to neutralize the effect of the potent kiezz.
The first course was a sort of fish, pungent and apparently pretty gamy. Malin, who had sampled the foods of thirty planets and so was accustomed to almost anything, did not find the dish repugnant—but in the character of Paul O’Connor he felt called upon to offer some kind of comment, and he did.
“This stuff looks like it’s been hanging in a closet for six months.”
He wrinkled up his nose. Across the table from him Roy Buckley cut a slice and sampled it gingerly. Finally he nodded and pronounced his verdict: “It’s good.”
“I don’t know,” Malin said hesitantly.
“Go on,” Florence Cottrell urged gigglingly. “Try some!”
He did, finally, and found it not unpleasant to the taste. But he left half of it on the plate anyway. The character he had assumed was one that was a little suspicious of alien things, and it wouldn’t do for Paul O’Connor to take to Dyrainna cookery too quickly.
The next course was a vegetable, and after that meat; Robinson circulated, explaining what each thing was to anyone who was curious. Malin ate quietly, saying little, listening with care, hoping someone might make a slip that would give him his first clue.
Halfway through the meat course an untouchable appeared at the doorway of the dining room—a wiry little Dyrainna, wearing only a loincloth. He carried a wooden begging-bowl, and began to circulate, pleading with his eyes for scraps of leftover food.
“I think that’s disgusting,” Mrs. Bryson said. “Letting filthy beggars wander around a hotel dining room!”
“It’s the custom here,” Florence Cottrell said. “The pariahs are holy men. Nobody dares stop them no matter where they want to go or what they do.”
Mrs. Bryson shook her head stubbornly. “I still think it’s a filthy habit!”
The pariah, as if he had heard her petulant exclamation, immediately changed course and headed for their table, standing patiently at Mrs. Bryson’s elbow without uttering a word. She sawed away doggedly at her meat, trying to ignore the untouchable.
Unsmellable too, Malin thought. Evidently the beggars didn’t believe in baths.
After a long moment the pariah abandoned his idea of cadging a scrap from Mrs. Bryson, and moved around the table to stand near Malin and Florence Cottrell. Grinning, Malin severed a gristly section of his meat and dumped it into the greasy bowl. The beggar nodded and left the vicinity to devour his prize.
Mrs. Bryson muttered something darkly. Her husband tried to soothe her. Malin studied them both with diligent care. She was behaving too much like a typical tourist for it to be entirely convincing, he thought. Quite possibly all this loud complaining about the pariah was intended as a form of camouflage. Perhaps—
His attention was abruptly diverted from the Brysons by the arrival of a waiter bearing a tureen of soup. As the waiter staggered toward the table under the weight of the heavy tray, the pariah happened to cross his path, startling him and causing him to lose his balance.
Half a tureen of hot soup cascaded out over the diners at the table. Malin received a stinging splash against the back of his right hand; next to him, Florence Cottrell got the bulk of the soup on her neck and shoulders, while Mr. Bryson took a searing on his left arm.
Neither the woman nor Bryson had ever learned, the Jensen pain-controlling techniques, and so they yelled in pain; Malin, who had learned them, remained silent. At once Robinson came rushing toward the table, shouting apologies as he came. The waiter was down on his knees, mumbling in Dyrainna; the untouchable scurried quickly away from the scene.
Malin assured the apologetic Robinson that he had not been badly hurt, and then turned to look at Florence Cottrell, whose dress had been ruined and who seemed to have had a good scalding.
He looked at her with great interest. For at the moment when the soup landed she had cried out a single word: “Faroo!”
Malin found that very interesting. For faroo happened to be a particularly obscene curse-word—in the language of the Denebians.
IN the momentary confusion following the accident, Malin did his best to make it seem as if he hadn’t heard the incriminating obscenity that had involuntarily slipped from the woman’s lips. He accepted a napkin and the apologies of the management and wiped his sleeve. The hotel officials were so profusely upset about the incident that it was almost embarrassing to listen to them.
Malin was grateful to the clumsy waiter, though. The spilling of a bowl of soup had given him the first clue in his search.
The dining-room returned to normal after a while, and a new waiter began to serve them. Robinson assured them that the other Dyrainna was so disturbed by the incident that he had suffered a collapse and might possibly commit suicide in atonement.
