Bureau of Slick Tricks

BY H. B. FYFE

R

AMSAY STOOD on the smooth, springy floor of the empty anteroom, staring absently at the wall map of Terra’s economic empire and trying to decide whether he was there by invitation or under duress.

Certainly, the suave young man had been very apologetic about interrupting Ramsay’s vacation. He had also been alert to haul the tall, black-haired spaceman from the path of that water-logged Venusian, speeding down the hall outside in his three-wheeled, air-tight tank.

Yes, Tom, he muttered to himself, two years in space and you don’t know how to act on Terra.

Something about the stellar map disturbed him. Surely the star Cagsan was not that near to Sol. And where was the whole Fegashite binary system?

For foreign visitors, I suppose, he thought.

The map might well be deliberately distorted. As the economic crossroads of a sector of the galaxy, Terra sometimes was reluctant to reveal the exact locations of rich planets. In fact, communications to some star systems were often practically secret.

The map did show, in rather schematic fashion, the relationship of Sol with the multitude of stars lying out toward the “edge” of the galaxy, as well as points of contact with the vague and mighty civilizations farther toward the center. Finding profitable the role of middleman for a large volume of space, Terra had become a sort of front office for exploiting a huge trading empire. One of the devices useful to its interstellar “credit diplomacy” was the Bureau of Special Trading.

This was a scattered, intricate organization, designed to handle all the delicately shady problems arising from intercourse with thousands of different worlds—many of them with peculiar views of their own importance of adhering to quite exotic codes of behavior.

A musical note sounded, followed by a voice from an address system, requesting Mr. Ramsay to step into the office.

Ramsay slid open the door and strode into the next room. His calf-high spaceman’s boots sank noticeably into the floor as the man behind the desk rose to greet him.

“Good afternoon,” said a pleasant baritone.

The occupant of the office was dressed informally. His light-blue slacks and full-cut turquoise neck scarf contrasted pleasantly with a wine-colored jacket of the current draped and belted style. Feeling very dull in his dark green, Ramsay wished he had at least worn one of his new gold and red neck scarves.

He was waved into a comfortable chair, and in a few minutes began to feel more at ease. J. Gilbert Fuller was a very superior type indeed, but he was frank to confide to Ramsay that he was worried.

“And you say I can help you?” the spaceman asked, wondering if the wavy golden hair above his host’s ruddily tanned features could possibly be natural.

Fuller maintained an amiable expression, but raised a nervous finger to stroke his trim mustache.

“I am sure that you can,” he said. “Ah… perhaps I should first explain the … functions … of the Bureau.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Ramsay.

“Oh, well, then, of course you know that our main occupation is encouraging that sort of good will which influences visitors to continue doing business with Terra.”

“And in keeping them happy,” agreed Ramsay pleasantly, “you find it necessary to do some queer things.”

Fuller’s hands and features joined in an expressive gesture, suggesting bland denial, deprecating modesty, and willingness to treat Ramsay as a knowing insider.

“Oh, I know those jokes that have become popular,” he chuckled. “Wild deals by the Bureau of ‘Slick Tricks’—but they are merely hearsay. I can offer only a routine matter for your interest.”

“What makes me so special?” asked Ramsay.

“What makes you specially valuable? The fact, to speak loosely, that you are the only man available at the moment who can speak Kosorian.”

*

Ramsay straightened in his chair. He decided that Fuller probably never spoke loosely. How thoroughly had they checked him beforehand?

“That,” he said slowly, “was a place I was glad to blast off from. How did you know about it?”

“Well … anyhow, it seems to be as near to the absolute Edge as any Terran has ventured. Nevertheless, a spaceship from that star is due to land on Terra shortly.”

“From Kosor?” demanded Ramsay.

“Yes, a patrol rocket has just brought down three of their representatives. You know our policy of supplying interpreters familiar with the customs and language of our visitors. Unfortunately, speakers of Kosorian are few; the Deep Space Agency listed only you at present on Terra.”

Ramsay stared at him.

“Did you say they were going to land on Terra?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Do you know their propulsion methods?”

“Why, the Bureau signaled them in interstellar code, explaining which ships can land, what sizes have to land on Luna or the other planets, and that atomic-powered rockets must take up orbits around Luna while their freight is lightered down to Terra. They made no declaration of restriction.”

“Watch out for them!” warned Ramsay.

“What do you mean?”

“Kosorians are … well, it wouldn’t even occur to them to take the trouble to obey a law. Whatever they can get away with, they do.”

“Are you telling me they are lawless? Criminal?”

Ramsay crossed his long legs and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. Fuller’s eyes followed the motion, staring at the narrow scar running back from the spaceman’s left temple.

“That’s not it exactly,” said Ramsay. “They have a few general laws of a queer sort. They stick to them when it’s convenient. They’re … what’s the word I want? … they’re amoral. They just don’t think the way we do.”

“But we have no repressive statutes,” protested Fuller. “There should be no cause for friction.”

“Don’t you get it?” demanded Ramsay. “Just for example, when I was there, they were using atomic jets. Did they warn you? You better see to it they’re not allowed to land directly on Terra!”

Fuller’s face lost its blandness. For an instant, hardness showed through, and Ramsay sensed a wily, ruthless competence. That apparent plumpness might be layers of muscle over a stocky frame. He wondered if Fuller had anything against him.

The other turned meanwhile to his desk visor and spoke into it. Detecting a snapping undertone in the confident voice, the spaceman could imagine the stimulation of glands and the rise of blood pressure at the other end.

Fuller finished, flipped a switch, and leaned back.

“How did you make out in the Kosorian system, Ramsay?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“Got skinned to the bone. I went in there with a shipload of radium and jewels from Bormek, precision instruments from Terra, and … uh—”

“Go on,” Fuller encouraged him. “The B.S.T. has no interest in the dysenine you picked up around Fegash. Take a hint, however; the Interstellar Narcotics Department was quite puzzled when so much of it disappeared.”

Ramsay held his features perfectly expressionless—and knew that he was not fooling this slicker one bit. Lucky for him that there was little cooperation between the Bureau and the more legal-minded governmental agencies!

“Well,” he continued, “I was going to say, they haven’t got any ethics at all. Those that paid off at all tried to hand me gyp merchandise. A bunch of them even argued in cold blood about whether to space-freeze me right away for my ship, or wait till I had a cargo.”

“What stopped them?” asked Fuller.

“One of them came on the sly to ask me what life was worth.”

“By the way,” said Fuller chattily, “what was it worth?”

Ramsay stared at him coldly.

‘Two hundred Bormekian neurovibrators and the last of my radium.”

“That was very bad,” murmured Fuller. ‘Transporting deadly weapons. Interstellar Council is touchy about that. I suppose he made himself master of at least one planet?”

“No, I had to salvage some respect, so I told on him and put in for the reward.”

“Reward?”

“Most of their so-called laws are reinforced in the only way that works. They admired me for it, besides liking the chance to unload my jets.”

“From what you tell me, I wonder how you escaped.”

“Ah, that’s where I had a lightyear on them. Before their Senior Council paid off, I let my intended course leak out. I stowed away the stuff, about a thousand kilocredits’ worth of iraz crystals, and blew off the other way.”

“And then?”

“Worked back to Sol about six weeks ago, but before that I sold the crystals to a Bormekian who had been around Kosor. He told me the story was all through their system, how the smart boys had missed the Terran. Said I was the only alien in forty of their years to get out with more than he took in.”

Before the Bureau man could answer, his visor chimed.

“Send them right in,” he said after listening to the message. “Here they are,” he added to Ramsay.

*

The door was opened by the same unobtrusive young man who had brought Ramsay. He ushered in the visitors and discreetly withdrew as Fuller rose to greet them. Ramsay saw the B.S.T. man start to thrust out his hand, then pull it back in confusion as he sighted the tentacles.

The Kosorians walked steadily on three tapering extremities which functioned similarly to human legs; but the other triad of tentacles, corresponding to arms, seemed less natural because they grew from a base at the top of the Kosorian.

The spaceman enjoyed the look on Fuller’s face as the man scanned the dull greenish, cylindrical bodies and the gleaming metallic clothing and decorations for something at which he could talk. Finally, he realized that there was no single “head.” Under each of the upper tentacles was a collection of sensory and feeding organs: eyestalks, mandibles, auditory tympanna, and others more puzzling.

“You only see the half of it,” murmured Ramsay. “They breathe through their skins.”

“Oxygen, of course? Warm-blooded?”

“Oh, yes. But cold-hearted.”

“Well, tell them that I am honored to welcome them to the Terran Bureau of Special Trading.”

Ramsay put the welcome into as flowery and formal a Kosorian as he could remember. He introduced Fuller as a person of considerable importance—which he suspected might be true and which the Kosorians, with what they considered good manners, were the first to admit. One of them thrust out two eyes and scrutinized Ramsay carefully.

“All Terrans look alike,” it hissed from its nearest speaking orifice, “but I sense you are familiar.”

“You do?” said Ramsay.

“Sssssh!” It was an exclamation of wonder, not a request for silence. “I feel the truth. You were on Kosor IV. During Maoog’s rebellion.”

The other two waved eyes toward the speaker.

“This is the Terran which sneaked off with the reward.”

Every tentacle in the room twitched like the tail of an irritated cat, slapping against the cylindrical bodies in a Kosorian paroxysm of amusement.

“I am Evash,’’ the speaker informed Ramsay. “My companions are Ozul Nath and Viska Piljoog. We are deeply honored to meet one of your sagacity.”

“What is it saying?” demanded Fuller.

“They admire me for my past,” said Ramsay. “What do you want me to tell them?”

Fuller instantly became the perfect host. Ramsay interpreted the Bureau’s arrangements for the ferrying of freight from the orbit about Lunar, into which the Kosorian ship had been ordered. He expressed in several different ways the Bureau’s desire to make their visit pleasant, and the hope that it would lead to mutually profitable trade relations. He explained about the Bureau’s hotel for interstellar travelers, and mentioned that all rooms in the oxygen wing could be regulated for temperature, pressure, and oxygen content.

Evash protested that the Terrans’ hospitality was exceeded only by their wisdom, and asked when he and his friends might see this hotel.

Fuller beamed when this was translated

“Why, take them down now, in a Bureau aircar. Here—I’ll give you a B.S.T. identocard. I’ll countersign it—and you stamp your thumbprint in the corner. Now, anybody will accept your signature and send us the bill.”

“How high can I go?” inquired Ramsay prudently.

“Why, I don’t know.” Fuller stared in surprise. “I doubt that one man could dent the Bureau’s budget. Want a few kilocredits for petty cash?”

“Better not,” said the spaceman. “I’d have my pocket picked by these accessories in half an hour.”

“Here! Take one ‘kill’ anyhow. If it makes them happy to steal, that serves our purpose also.”

*

Ramsay shrugged, pocketed the roll of bills, and took his leave. He escorted the Kosorians to the hotel in an aircar placed at his disposal by Fuller. Since they were oxygen breathers, he was able to help them to check in and to see them to their suite on the second floor. He promised to return next morning when the B.S.T. had made landing arrangements for them.

Leaving, he was stopped in the lobby by a sad clerk. The man was accompanied by a mechanical monstrosity housing a chlorine-breathing citizen of Vozaal VII.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the harassed clerk, “but are you the gentleman with the Kosorians—I believe that is the name?”

“That’s right,” said Ramsay, pulling out his identocard.

“Oh, I see, sir. Honored, indeed. But this … ah … gentleman in the rather crude vacuum suit wished to inquire about them.”

He turned to the metallic bulk, which exchanged a series of whistles with him. The alien turned and lumbered away.

The clerk managed a rueful gesture with one eyebrow.

“He says he wants a special locking device on his air lock, and all his valuables in the hotel safe. He also served notice that he intends to keep a weapon in his room.”

“Good idea,” agreed Ramsay cheerfully. “Met them before, did he?”

He went out, leaving the gloomy man to his worry.

Having returned to the Bureau in the aircar, he discovered that Fuller had plans for him that did not include a free evening. The chief slicker had a pair of assistants and some weird apparatus gathered in a room adjoining his office.

“You are going to give me lessons in Kosorian,” he told Ramsay.

“Now?” yelped the latter.

“It will only take an evening, with hypnosis and sleep recordings made while you talk to me about the language.”

“But—”

“Oh, I know I am being inconsiderate after your long time in space, but your fee will be generous. You do want to co-operate, do you not?”

“Oh, sure, I don’t mind,” said Ramsay, thinking of the Fegashite dysenine. “What shall I start with?”

*

The next morning, Tom Ramsay went directly to the B.S.T. hotel. Fuller had promised to have an aircar with a permanently assigned chauffeur meet him there. During their brief morning television talk, Fuller had explained the arrangements.

The Kosorians had been assigned a warehouse in the hundred mile long coastal landing area south of the city. The Bureau had announced the event to certain buyers, among whom it had planted its own eyes and ears. Ramsay was to escort the Kosorians there to meet the others of their crew accompanying the cargo, and was to watch for anything suspicious.

That was about the way Ramsay understood it. He was a trifle hazy on details, since Fuller had insisted upon practicing the sort of pidgin-Kosorian he had acquired by the partnership of Ramsay and science. The spaceman felt that the slicker’s accent was not beyond reproach.

He was surprised to find his charges waiting for him in the empty lobby.

“We have been exploring the resources of this building,” Evash hissed in reply to his question. “There were some methods of estimating the results of chance.”

“Methods of— Oh! The gambling room. Yes, it’s designed to duplicate the favorite games of our visitors.”

“It occurred to us,” whooshed Ozul, “that they were arranged very courteously to be generous toward the guests.”

“Oh?” said Ramsay, thinking that the Bureau had better be slicker with its tricks for making visitors happy.

“Please do not think us displeased,” Evash begged him. “It is merely that after we had obtained a large sum of your money … was it over a hundred kilocredits, Viska?”

Ramsay gulped.

“At any rate,” Evash continued, “you can understand how the attraction faded. Especially since we found we knew certain methods of influencing some of the games.”

The skin prickled all over Ramsay’s body. The wad of Fuller’s money felt like a planetoid of negative matter in his pocket.

“You mean,” he whispered, “that you can win—anytime?”

The Kosorian tentacles twitched in amusement.

“I can feel your thoughts like the rays of Kosor on the airless first planet,” said Evash. “Unfortunately, they will not allow us to return.”

“What!”

“We permitted some of the non-Terran guests to instruct us in their own games,” explained Ozul. “Ssssh!”

‘They thought they were cheating us,” added Viska, his tentacles curling at the tips almost into knots.

“And now,” Evash hissed regretfully, “only the Terrans will communicate with us at all. It must be their duty.”

*

Cursing himself for rising to the bait, Ramsay went to inquire for the aircar Fuller had promised. He was informed that it would drop down from the parking roof in a moment. Ramsay led the Kosorians outside and looked around for it.

A husky, uniformed man, whose features suggested experience in one of the rougher sports, left an aircar with idling props and trotted over.

“Mr. Ramsay?” he asked.

“And party,” added the spaceman.

“Yes sir … ulp! All tails, no heads, ain’t they?”

“What?”

“I’m Jack Harley. Mr. Fuller says I’m to stick with you for this job.”

“Glad to have you, Jack,” said Ramsay, noting mentally that this was a good pair of shoulders to have handy. “Count your money, and let’s go. Know where it is?”

“Yeah. Mr. Fuller gimme a map.”

They all crawled into the aircar. About a quarter of an hour later, they hovered over a long, low building beside which rested a small, local-cargo rocket. This had been brought into position for unloading on a series of undercarriages running along specially constructed tracks. As soon as Jack had landed, they alighted, Ramsay being especially relieved to do so. The machine was designed for comfort—if your companions were human.

They were admitted to the building when Ramsay flashed his B.S.T. card to the guards. The spaceman glanced down the length of the cargo shed. All the workers were Terrans, but he could see several Kosorians supervising the unloading. At the far end, one of these seemed to be comparing his own records on tape with the paper pages of a Terran clerk.

Even at a distance, it was obvious that the barrier of language prevented the least progress. Standing by was a rotund little Terran, waving his arms hysterically; but the Kosorian was by nature better equipped for such debate.

“I see that some of your friends have come,” said Ramsay to his three charges as they moved toward the scene.

“From that I sense an idea,” hissed Evash. “Do I understand that the circulation of them is inhibited?”

“Inhibited— Oh. Yes, more or less. It’s a formality, until or unless they have passports approved. I guess you’d call the law here a little clumsy.”

“We are relieved to hear your opinion,” Evash told him. “It suggests that informal alleviation may be possible.”

Ramsay thought: Here it comes! Watch out for strings, kid. Aloud, he said:

“I’d be flattered to hear your solution.”

The three Kosorians slowed their pace with such unanimity that the spaceman wondered if they possessed any unseen means of communication. He stopped to face them.

“It happens,” said Ozul politely, “that we can well spare a sum of Terran currency, having more than is convenient—”

He displayed a neatly folded wad of credit bills at the tip of one tentacle.

“Oh, some of your winnings?” inquired Ramsay.

“It seemed to us,” suggested Viska, “that they would be more useful to you.”

“Besides,” said Evash, “hardly any Terran except you could detect another Kosorian replacing one of us.”

“I suppose not,” said Ramsay, carelessly thrusting the currency into the pocket of his slacks. “And it seems a shame for them to miss seeing the sights.”

The trio agreed enthusiastically.

“It is a flattering pleasure to have met you again,” Evash concluded. “You are the one Terran who understands us.”

*

Ramsay expressed gratitude and suggested that they investigate the dispute ahead of them. The Kosorians slithered gracefully between hustling workers and truckloads of goods to follow Ramsay. The Terran clerk withdrew pointedly, leaving the strange Kosorian and the little man thrashing air.

“Can I be of service?” asked Ramsay in Kosorian.

“Can you talk to it?” demanded the Terran, amazed.

“I am overjoyed to sense you,” said the Kosorian, making a gesture of greeting to Ramsay’s companions. “I stand in dire need of wisdom.”

“Say it can’t do that to me!” panted the chubby man.

Evash had turned to his crewmate and was speaking in careful Kosorian, slow enough for Ramsay to understand easily. He overheard several references to his kindness, intelligence, and importance. The Kosorian supervisor brought all possible eyes to bear upon him.

“This thing seems disturbed by some matter,” it explained apologetically, “but I am too stupid to understand it.”

“What’s your damage?” Ramsay asked the little man.

“Name’s Carter. Contracted for this entire cargo. Got priority from the B.S.T. for a special bid.”

“You mean you’re buying it sight unseen? Brother, the orbits shift when these boys are around!”

“Oh, I’ll make a profit, all right. Ship the whole lot to one of my sector agents and let him worry. Anything has a market somewhere. Besides”—he winked—”I got a guarantee against loss.”

“Well, it’s your gamble.”

“Not the point. It won’t deliver everything. See that pile of cans there?”

Ramsay followed the gesture to a shoulder-high stack of sealed metal containers. The cans were cubes measuring about fifty centimeters to the edge. There were nearly a hundred.

“You refuse him part of the cargo?” he asked in Kosorian.

“Now I feel the truth,” said the supervisor. “Tell it this belongs to the crew members, for private speculation, according to our custom.”

“It is so,” confirmed Evash. “Such would not come under the agreement. They should be presented for public bidding.”

“That seems only fair,” admitted Ramsay. “The public may be interested. What do the crew members usually choose?”

He idly hefted one of the cans. It was very light, not empty, but like something fluffy and bulky packed in thin metal.

“I do not know,” said Evash. “Each one chooses differently. Would your Bureau care to inspect the contents?”

“Oh … no,” said Ramsay quickly, feeling that he had shown entirely too much curiosity.

There would be nothing wrong with the first shipment; the later ones would bear watching. Or would the Kosorians have estimated his reasoning in exactly that way?

He explained as best he could to Carter.

His three Kosorians spent about an hour inspecting the facilities at their disposal and conversing with various of their companions. At length, they returned to the hotel, where Ramsay arranged for an aircar to take them on an aerial tour.

This attended to, the spaceman had Jack make a beeline for the Bureau. He was reasonably certain that a different “Viska” had returned from the warehouse.

*

“And you think they were not the same?” mused Fuller, when Ramsay had reported. “How much did they give you?”

Ramsay pulled the roll of credits from his pocket and began to count them. As he passed eight hundred, he hesitated. Two more hektocredit bills made one thousand.

“One kill, to be exact,” he murmured.

Fuller looked at him thoughtfully.

“I handed you a kilocredit for expenses yesterday,” he began, but Ramsay was already fumbling out his credit case.

He carried one of iridescent Cagsan lizard skin, supple but incredibly tough. His fingers plucked at the tiny combination lock to the large-bill compartment, but he felt that it would be empty. It was.

“Believe me,” he said to Fuller, “I never noticed it out of my pocket! I don’t even know how long it took them to open the lock.”

“Don’t worry,” said Fuller. “I am beginning to believe your account of them.”

He rose.

“If you will step into the next room, I have something to show you.”

Ramsay silently followed him through the door.

In the next room, they found two of Fuller’s assistants with a sort of outsize centipede, which Ramsay recognized as a Fegashite. This individual seemed very nervous, constantly making fluttering motions with his six pairs of limbs to smooth down the white fur of his slim, two-meter body. Like the Terrans, he had a two-eye visual system, but each wandered at will about the office, without daring to meet a human glance.

“I would like you to meet Number 840176,” said Fuller.

“I thought they used names,” said Ramsay.

“They do,” replied Fuller genially, “until we catch them selling dysenine or other drugs around Sol.”

The Fegashite twittered shrilly. One of the assistant slickers translated.

“He says you promised to overlook it in return for his cooperation.”

“Perhaps I shall,” murmured Fuller. “It depends upon how useful he may be.”

He turned to Ramsay.

“One of the local patrol ships caught this worm negotiating with your friends.”

“When?” demanded Ramsay.

“Oh, I use the term loosely. I mean their main ship, just inside Luna. The patrol picked him up after he left their orbit. They sent this weasel down to me when they found traces of the leading Fegashite export.”

“Dysenine?”

“What else? And my neck hairs tell me your Kosorians have it by now. Did you see anything odd at the warehouse?”

Ramsay told his suspicions of the cans ostensibly owned by the crew. The Fegashite, apparently understanding a good deal of Terran, twittered to Fuller’s assistant.

“He says he sold it to them in plastic bags,” translated the man. “In powder form, you know, that light stuff.”

“Yes, I know,” agreed Ramsay.

“I imagine you do,” said Fuller. “Were those cans light enough?”

“Yes,” said Ramsay, with bitter simplicity.

“Well,” said Fuller, “I shall just have to get the Bureau on the job.”

They returned to the B.S.T. man’s own office, where, at his request, Ramsay put through a telecall to the Kosorians. He located them in the aircar supplied by the hotel and arranged an appointment with Fuller upon their return.

That gentleman dismissed him for the rest of the day, seeming confident of his ability to make himself understood in Kosorian.

“At least on the fundamentals,” he muttered viciously as Ramsay left.

*

Some time later, Ramsay’s dinner was interrupted by a call from the Bureau. Judging from the background on the visor, Fuller was in his own office.

“We came to an understanding,” he informed Ramsay. “They had a little deal with a Terran who shall remain nameless—to you. Some of my colleagues will be so happy to lay hands on him that I offered your octopi chums their expected profit if they would let us deliver the goods.”

“They admit what it is?” asked the spaceman.

“They appear to be without a sense of shame. The B.S.T. will, of course, arrange for the Narcotics Department to confiscate the dysenine immediately, so no harm will be done. I demanded only one condition from the Kosorians, and they promised to bring the small amount of dysenine they held out to my office tonight.”

“Have them watched,” recommended Ramsay.

Fuller clucked reprovingly.

“My dear boy!” he exclaimed.

“Will they stay long?” asked Ramsay, to change the subject.

“The Bureau has already transferred their credit to Luna, where a cargo was got together for them. They are loading now from Luna, at the same time we are clearing up the details of their cargo here.”

“That’s nice,” said Ramsay.

“Quite. Drop in to see me tomorrow morning.”

Ramsay agreed, cut off, and began to plan an evening. The next morning, but not too early, he entered Fuller’s office. Taking a chair at the other’s languid gesture, he noticed that the B.S.T. man did not seem as alertly self-possessed as usual.

“Trouble?” asked Ramsay, crossing his long legs.

A slight frown creased Fuller’s brow.

“I am not sure,” he said.

Ramsay waited for further revelation.

“What I should say, I suppose, is that I cannot quite remember.”

“Can’t remember what?” asked Ramsay.

Fuller threw him a disgusted glare. He opened his mouth for what Ramsay expected to be a cutting answer, but the chime of his desk visor sounded.

“Fuller here,” he answered. “Astro Department? Well … not exactly alone—”

He glanced thoughtfully at Ramsay.

The spaceman raised one eyebrow and gestured toward the door, but the other shook his head.

“Does it concern my Kosorian case?” he asked the visor.

There was an instant of silence, then Ramsay heard a murmur from the instrument. A pretty slick arrangement, he thought, the screen turned away from visitors and the sound directionalized as well.

Fuller made a wry face. Without a word, he nodded to the unseen caller and flipped the switch.

“Now I remember,” he told Ramsay grimly.

“What is it?”

“Yesterday,” said Fuller, slumping forward dejectedly, “in the evening, after I called you, our three friends returned.”

“To give up the dysenine they still had?”

“That is what I thought. They began to lead up to it in that flattering fashion of theirs. I forget which one went so far as to put his ‘arm’ around my shoulder, but after that things seemed different.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is very difficult to visualize. I must have been instructed to forget, but I think it felt a little like hypnosis. I seemed to understand their speech better, but I do not remember having a single original thought after that.”

“They must have slipped you a touch of dysenine,” said Ramsay. “Did you lose track of time? Were all your other senses very alert, especially about physical movements?”

“Yes,” said Fuller. “Perhaps those are the associations which help me to remember, now that something has reminded me. To be as brief as possible:

“Somehow, I began to feel that it would be a good thing to show them the astro-intelligence section. I think that was after they expressed interest in that wall map outside. It was after hours, but my badge got us past what I had always considered the perfect mechanical watchman device.”

“What kind of a place is it?” asked Ramsay.

“The secret file room is where we wound up, I think. I feel that we were in there only a few seconds, but that may be the effect of the drug. I have a picture in mind of one of those snakes holding a length of film.”

“You mean they keep the files on microfilm?”

“Yes, and that must be what made me remember just now. That call was a general alert, the routine procedure when something important is mislaid. They are missing a sixteen millimeter film strip, which holds complete data, especially location, about a whole group of little-known star systems.”

“Something—profitable?”

“Unimaginably.”

“Do they know about the Kosorians, in the other section?”

“Not yet, apparently,” groaned Fuller. “As soon as they learn, I shall be on a curve for the Edge.”

There were a few silent minutes while they thought it over.

“Probably,” said Ramsay, “they didn’t expect you ever to catch on. Dysenine effects aren’t quite as complete on Terrans as on most people.” “I wonder,” mused Fuller with a wicked expression creeping across his features, “what is effective on Kosorians.”

“I don’t know,” said Ramsay. “They never told me.”

Fuller reached out to turn on his visor.

“We’ll soon find out,” he promised.

*

In the next half hour, Ramsay was treated to a glimpse of the resources behind a B.S.T. representative. Fuller consulted with and gave assignments to chemists, mathematicians, local police, psychologists, news broadcasters, transportation experts, biologists—Ramsay lost track. The Bureau seemed to have contacts in any given organization. Occasionally, questions were asked, but never any beginning with “why.”

“That might do it,” sighed Fuller finally, leaning back and smoothing his blond mustache with one finger. “As soon as the chemists come through, our friends will get their emergency notice—I suppose it will be ‘one of our devastating Terran hurricanes,’ or some such thing. At least, it will require them to clear out for their safety.”

“Taking their secrets with them?”

“Attempting to, I trust,” answered Fuller complacently. “We shall be unsuspecting and completely cooperative. You will be sent to escort them to their assigned rocket and to cut all red tape concerning their departure.”

“How will that get your microfilm back?”

“I hope that you will be able to go to the hotel with something really potent in your pocket. When you damp their jets with that, we shall have a battalion in there to search every scrap they intend to take with them. Before they realize what curve they are on, they will be in space.”

“Sounds good,” said Ramsay, “but I hope you don’t underestimate them.”

“I hardly dare think of that,” said Fuller.

Just then, his visor announced a caller.

At Fuller’s response, a man in a laboratory smock scurried into the office. He left the door open behind him, using both hands to cup a small, fragile object.

“Meyers, Chem,” he introduced himself tersely. “O’Brien says this may work.”

“What is it?” asked Fuller.

“We looked up everything there is about all life forms like what you described. O’Brien picked out four or five of the most sure-shot freezers the Bureau knows. Then we blended them into a solution and sealed a small quantity in this vial. Break that, and you’ll have a gas immediately.”

He nearly drooled with pride. Ramsay was still hoping it was really that good when he reached the hotel about an hour later. He had a room number to call when he was ready for Fuller’s crew. To avoid attention even in the oxygen wing, they were all to be non-Terran.

He let Jack take the aircar up to the parking roof, after warning him to expect anything. Then he went inside and headed for the elevator. Four scaly Centaurians crowded into the car ahead of him, however, and favored him with a quartet of chilly, reptilian stares.

“Must know who I came to see,” reflected Ramsay, deciding that he preferred the stairs.

It was only one flight up. He reached the door quickly enough, but paused outside to ease the little vial in his breast pocket Then he pressed the button which would announce his presence with a musical note and an image on an interior screen.

The door opened in a moment, and he was greeted by Evash. The Kosorian gestured hospitably with one tentacle, and Ramsay stepped in.

He stepped into the tentacle, which neatly completed the welcoming gesture by whipping two turns around his neck. Another steely grip encircled his waist and he was jerked off his feet. He heard the door slam behind him. Then he felt a sharp prick at the nape of his neck. Evash held him in midair for … for—Ramsay could not tell how long.

He discovered himself standing again. He was slightly off balance to the left, supported by a Kosorian tentacle. With weird slowness, two other Kosorians progressed into his field of view. Feeling that he was making a poor showing, the spaceman tried to straighten up. He was immediately aware that he had overdone it and was falling to his right. He felt the muscles in his right foot, ankle, and leg straining to correct but realized they would be too slow. Every other muscle in his body Struggled to move left. He regretted that he did not have better control over a particular set in the left small of his back.

Then Evash wrapped a tentacle around the Terran’s head and supplied the missing ounce of balance. Simultaneously, the surrounding action speeded up drastically.

“Whatllwedowithm?” hissed Evash.

The other two answered. Ramsay tried to decide whether they took turns or talked together. He seemed to get the first word or so of every sentence. This code was too fast for him, he thought

“Came … coincidence—”

“Feel untruth—”

“Search—”

“Convenient … use … ship—”

“Aircar—”

“Chauffeur … easy—”

“Perfect … go—”

“Downstairs … go downstairs … go… with … us … downstairs … go … with … us—”

Ramsay found himself walking through the door in a web of tentacles. With every step, he was amazed anew that he succeeded in performing the complicated maneuver of moving forward a leg to catch himself as he started to fall.

“Act … normal … act … normal … act normal—”

*

Ramsay noticed that he was plunging furiously down the stairs. The thick carpet at the bottom rushed up at him like the surface of Stegath II the time he had crashed a landing rocket He almost screamed as a bolt of fear flickered throughout his nervous system.

“Hold back!” he told himself, but the tentacles seemed to shove him along.

In the small of his back, a pore oozed a drop of sweat. Then two on his forehead, and several in his armpits. He was drowning in his own perspiration and heading for a smash at the foot of the stairs.

“Gotta adjust,” he thought frantically.

He had been thinking that for hours, but now there was something more important he must do. A voice from somewhere was telling him—

Halfway to the door, he realized he had spoken to the desk clerk, as someone had suggested. A second later, they were outside. Ramsay cursed silently and furiously to try to snap himself out of it. They were getting away and no one seemed to notice anything wrong. Where were all of Fuller’s agents?

“Called your aircar at the desk,” Evash explained to him. “Pick us up here.”

The Kosorian spoke more slowly. No, Ramsay had adjusted again. Everything was slow. He seemed aware of each individual muscle in his body. Staring ahead, he saw the shadow of the descending aircar, and took about a year to think things over while it reached them.

This is the blast off, he thought. I’ll tip Jack off somehow. They won’t get any farther.

They had taken him with commendable neatness. A dysenine needle in the neck. He was theirs. Not a move without suggestion. But he must! Who was to offer him suggestions except the Kosorians? He was lucky to be able to think at all. Probably they had been afraid of killing him, not realizing that Terrans could stand more than most beings thought at first glance.

He must concentrate on letting Jack know. Not too openly, lest his captors notice. Just plainly enough to show something was wrong.

The aircar settled lightly in front of them. As suggested, Ramsay drawled through the explanation that he himself would pilot their guests to the rocket, to spare red tape. The chauffeur need not bother. He watched Jack’s features radiate surprise, disbelief, thought, acceptance, suspicion. The man had blinked.

The Kosorians began to creep into the aircar. Ramsay estimated the odds for six different courses of action on Jack’s part, ranging from taking the day off to reporting immediately to Fuller that something was wrong. For himself, he knew he was perfectly capable of dashing inside to the desk, calling the B.S.T., dictating a complete report, and rushing back in time to close the door after the last Kosorian.

But somewhere between the decision and the physical action lay a cold, dead, inert vacuum. Instead, he got in.

“Take us up!” suggested Evash.

Ramsay took the aircar up, yearning all the while for enough control to squeeze the vial in his pocket. He wanted almost as badly to look down and see what Jack was doing. Instead he stared directly at the instrument panel.

“Not so fast,” advised Evash.

Ramsay slowed the machine until it seemed to him that they must plummet out of the sky. He counted the revolutions of the overhead rotor from its shadow on the hood, wishing he had the drive to look up at it.

Tom, my boy, he told himself, no use kidding yourself. You can’t break out of this. You’ll have to use it against them—like judo, where you use the other guy’s strength.

The Kosorians had him head south, toward the warehouse where the rocket was waiting. He only had a few minutes.

It had to be soon. Some way to avoid doing exactly as they told him. Deliberately misunderstand—no, he must not think that, even if he meant it. Keep it at the back of his mind. Way back. Do exactly as they said, and maybe make up his mind in the middle of doing it.

He must plan … something … but convince himself that he was not planning rebellion. Must forget that word. Keep his real intentions submerged. Do what they said.

“What is our Terran thinking?” inquired Evash.

“I must do as you wish,” answered Ramsay promptly.

“Very good,” approved Evash. “Down toward the warehouse.”

*

Ramsay considered the order. “Down toward the warehouse.” That was too simple to be ambiguous at all. He glided down. If only he could muster the initiative to lean forward against the wheel and smash the vial! He would get no opportunity to twist their words. He had been a fool to think he would. He strained with every ounce of determination he had to lean forward.

Nothing. He did not even break into a sweat as he had imagined he would. Meanwhile the aircar had swooped near the building, where the rocket waited.

“Land by the ship, like a good little Terran,” said Evash sarcastically.

Ramsay gave thorough consideration to the Kosorian’s figure of speech, in both languages. He decided that its translated equivalent indicated a Terran child of about a six-year intelligence. Obediently, he slammed the aircar toward the ground with probably the most accurate imitation ever conceived of a six-year-old’s skill!

“No, no! Up again!” shrieked Evash frantically.

The aircar smacked against the ground and jolted along for several yards before Ramsay’s reflexes obeyed the order to rise. There were a number of dull, thudding blows in the rear as the Kosorians thrashed about with terrified tentacles. Ramsay tried to push himself away from the wheel, against which he had been slapped like a wet rag. He was aware of a sharp stinging in his chest as he reached out to the controls.

“What was I going to do?” he wondered. “Oh, yes, go up.”

The aircar rose straight up, its interior quite silent.

Good thing they build them right, thought Ramsay. Not fragile like— Say! What is that? Yeow!

He had discovered the pungent smell in the aircar. Also, he was aware that he had made up his own mind about it.

“Maybe I can even turn my head,” he thought happily.

He could. It made him feel very gay. The three Kosorians were a tangled mass in the rear, completely relaxed. It seemed very funny. He began to chuckle, then to laugh.

Ramsay guffawed at the top of his lungs all the while he calmly and coldly considered whether he would have time for what was necessary.

About fifteen minutes later, he was still snickering as he crawled again into the front seat.

“I’ll kick that O’Brien onto a curve for the Edge,” he vowed as he began to hiccup. “What did he put in it anyway? Laughing gas? What a mixture I have in me by now!”

He had not been as lightning fast as the dysenine had led him to imagine; but, in the end, two small strips of film had come to light in a hollow ornament on one of Ozul’s tentacles.

Ramsay tucked these into his boot and headed for the warehouse. His landing, beside the building, in front of the rocket, was only slightly drunken, but he expected the guards to remember his earlier try. Surprised when no one molested him, he looked around as he opened a few windows. He saw Jack peering at him from the darkness of an open doorway.

Ramsay beckoned, and the chauffeur sprinted out to him.

“Under control, sir?” he panted.

“Just about,” said Ramsay. “Am I glad to see you!”

“I called Mr. Fuller right after you left. We been on your tail one way or t’other ever since.”

“Good,” said Ramsay, pulling the film strips from his boot “Here, grab these and clear out fast. Tell them to act around here as if nothing happened.”

Jack scorched a trail back to the building. Ramsay, after glancing at the Kosorians, quickly checked his cash and identocard. As soon as he saw another aircar rise from behind the rocket and speed off to the north, he leaned forward over the wheel, head in arms. When they came to, so would he.

*

Later, he watched Fuller’s eyes gleam as the B.S.T. man poured a pair of drinks.

“Did they know?” he asked Ramsay.

“I doubt it,” said the spaceman. “I don’t think they knew any better than I did exactly how long we were up. We exchanged compliments before they went aboard the rocket.”

“What did they have to say?”

“Oh, their usual line. They hated to part from me, but hoped to make a better profit at their next stop, since they would surely have less brilliant people to deal with.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Said I’d never dream of being on Terra the next time they came, because I don’t have the brains to keep up with them. They hoped so, as they wouldn’t dare try any sharp deals if I were. Anyway, they had some other places in mind.”

“Other places,” mused Fuller. “That sounds good. Those were the films, but do you think they will figure it out?”

“Sure,” said Ramsay. “Evash will come back to the time he can’t remember between landing and getting out. He’ll catch on. That’s what I’m enjoying!”

‘That leaves only one or two details,” said Fuller. “I intend to stretch a point because you have been of considerable assistance.”

“What?” asked Ramsay.

“That ten pounds of dysenine you had—very clever to have it crystallized to look like cheap jewelry. One of our men checked your quarters. Routine, you know.”

Ramsay had visions of being dismissed with no other wages than this “favor” he had not known he needed.

“Listen,” he said, “was the stuff hard to find? Or was it practically in plain sight? It sounds like something Evash would have thought was funny.”

Fuller reflected. He nodded slowly.

“I dare say that was it,” he said. “Well, the Bureau will send a suitable fee around to your hotel tomorrow. I intend to include my own little letter of recommendation. You will be surprised how much help it will be—in the most unexpected places.”

“I can imagine,” grinned Ramsay.

“You think you can!” said Fuller. “Sorry, I shall have to have back the identocard. It gives its bearer carte blanche, and might prove embarrassing to us.”

“Sure,” said Ramsay, reaching for his credit folder.

He noticed that Fuller refrained from questioning the thick stack of credits he removed to look for the card. The Bureau was not niggardly, whatever its slick practices. He should have the card by now; there did not seem to be any more compartments in which to look.

“Do you mean to tell me—?” began Fuller, choking.

Ramsay’s shoulders drooped. He nodded sadly.

Fuller sat motionless for several moments. The spaceman thought his complexion darkened some. His expression froze.

Then, with perfectly bland features, Fuller reached out for the glass from which he had been drinking. He raised it shoulder-high and hurled it against the far wall of the office. Ramsay ducked instinctively as the splinters flew.

The Bureau man drew a long breath. He smoothed down his mustache with a trembling finger.

“Oh, well,” he sighed, “they’re gone!”