Z-Sting Read online

  On Moon, Croyd broke off ivisiradio communication with Herod on Rab at 1836 hours, 22 May. Requiring almost immediate transportation to Erth, he was for practical purposes marooned underground at his experimental Moon installation; this problem had to be dealt with; and since this dealing could not be simple, apparently it would have to be complicated.

  He began by trading identities and clothing with a Rab officer whose name, by the maddest of coincidences, was Lieutenant Vishnu. He next approached a resident Mare Stellarum inspector and requested a taxi to Moonbase. That was easy: why not?

  At Moonbase, Croyd-Vishnu explained that spare parts obtainable in Trenton were needed for the hypertelecom experiment, and he requested transportation to procure them personally. That was not so easy: Erth was now quarantined; he was advised to present a requisition—the parts would be obtained for him as soon as possible. Why was Erth quarantined? Reason not attached to information. Croyd recognized what Moonbase did not: it was the COMCORD crisis, and Ziska had gone into action.

  On the spot, Croyd wrote the requisition (in septuplicate), disclosed that he (Lieutenant Vishnu) had orders for a week or more of discretionary travel, and asked for private quarters at Moonbase with visiphone (buggable, naturally) while he thought things over. This was granted.

  In his eighteenth-story quarters, he executed a test: fixing eyes on cutichron, he set himself for five minutes uptime and willed the twitch. (It was always a physical-seeming thing, indefinitely in the area of the solar plexus.) Had the twitch come, he would have found himself still rising in the updraft with his cutichron reading five minutes earlier. Instead, the twitchless twitchiness indicated lambent semi-readiness but then went away. No uptime.

  Well, what could you do? He’d noticed this over and over again: there was some special kind of energy involved in uptiming, he couldn’t yet tap it with perfect selectivity; apparently he had expended it during the Nereid binge and the subsequent self-rescue; he could only wait until it would recrudesce. Meanwhile this transient uptime disability seriously crippled him for what he had to do. His thought had been to latch on to a moon ferry which had already spaced to Erth, and then to a tube which had already swifted to Senevendia; to return into Senevendian actuality, there where he was sure the action was, and to go to work instantly on the action. But those possibilities were eliminated by the fatigue of his uptime capacity.

  All right; there was a back-up possibility. This, if it should work, would take overnight; but presumably the imbalance would not progress overnight, it depended on bureaucrats who valued their sleep.

  He therefore activated his room’s visiradiophone (the ordinary rekamatic variety) and voice-dictated a Manhattan number: 9402-8713-2964, extension 702. A few seconds later his visiscreen was filled by a title stating THIS IS A RECORDING; and a familiar, crisply modulated mezzo audio’d pleasingly: “Please specify whether you want to leave a photo—and do leave a message. No time limit; I don’t turn off until you do. Carlton out.” The sign changed to START DICTATION.

  So Carlton perked nicely on tape, suggesting much, promising nothing. He replied: “Well done, Lieutenant. By all means, a photo. Take.” He grinned wickedly while it clicked. He then added: “If you recognize me, allowing for new youth, call Moonbase and ask for Transient Lieutenant Vishnu of the frigate Mazurka out of Rab. Call any time until 0200 hours tomorrow morning, and then I will have to leave here.”

  When he disconnected, there was a reconnect; and a nasal female (no video) said: “This is Communications Specialist First-Class Frodo of Moonbase monitoring your calls. Sir, please state the purpose of the message for Lieutenant Carlton in Manhattan.”

  Knowing that he was visible to Frodo, Croyd adopted embarrassment. “With luck,” he explained, “a date.”

  “Oh. Pardon me, sir. You understand that I—”

  "You’re doing fine, Frodo. Stay at it. Who knows what you may learn?”

  Click.

  He checked cutichron: 2002. He punched autocom: “I am to be found immediately for any call. Track me through Transient Officers’ Mess.” Then—having taken time to shower, shave, and get into clean linenoid—he left his quarters and stepped into an updraft that lifted him to a luxurious high-level restaurant.

  Seated at the long bar, he peered past bartenders and bottles at a superb view of the Julius Caesar Mountains. A human bartender asked his preference (as a profession they had survived well because robots are dispiriting counselors in times of trouble). Croyd ordered frosted zac in a long frosted glass: it came automatically at his order—but the human bartender had presided, and that made all the difference.

  Brooding over his zac, enjoying its textured coolness with the palms of both hands, he reviewed his gambleplanning, measuring its inexact logic, seeking flaws. There was no point in seeking to penetrate COMCORD Central in Manhattan: Ziska’s top people would be there, and Ziska had every selfish wish to kill the crisis—that quarter was covered. The action for Croyd would be in Senevendia, with Chancellor Andhra if he could get to him; and even that would be no better than the best possible lead to the cause of the threat and to the heart of the whole threat whatever it was—if Croyd’s working assumption was right, that Andhra was bringing the Z-effect down upon his own Senevendia in a distortion of paranoid guilt, and that Andhra-type guilt would be so cosmic as to involve a great deal more than Senevendia.

  And if all that were wrong, why then . . .

  Call it right until followed down and proved right or wrong. If it was wrong, it was a false track that could somehow lose Erth-world. But it was the best of all hypotheses—and there was time to run down only one.

  Time? How much time?

  He ordered more zac. COMCORD had gone critical, with a 2•5 imbalance, at 0241 hours this morning. It was now 2029—about eighteen hours later. For all he knew, COMCORD might already have reached the Z-wave trigger point of 3•0; but if so, it was too late for action? whereas if not so, it was unlikely that grievances would multiply by night. Nevertheless, time was thin! Now was when he should be in Senevendia. And he could get there swiftly, using the methods that had got him onto Nereid. Once there, though—what could he accomplish by night? He had to work through people at the level of Andhra himself! By waiting, he might have an interesting resource.

  His ticket was maybe Carlton. First she had to get him to Erth, and then to Senevendia. But if she got him to Erth, it would be Manhattan; and the earliest tube-car from Manhattan to Senevendia would leave at 0710 tomorrow, arriving in Senevendia at 0800—giving him—how many hours to find Andhra, choke a lead out of him, follow down the lead, and make it work—with Carlton buying him time?

  Best bet available. Erth was quarantined: without military help, he couldn’t get in. Senevendia was triple-quarantined: even that 0710 tube was a VIP tube, even Carlton mightn’t get him on it. There might be earlier military rocket-plane flights into Senevendia; he doubted it, even if he could somehow latch on to one; and if such a flight were not a great deal earlier, it would arrive later than the tube because of takeoff and reentry limitations along with ballistics. Whereas uptiming-in was now impossible . . .

  No, chalk off those ideas. The best bet was Carlton and an 0800 arrival in Senevendia. And besides—among all the other long chances—there was a delaying action that Carlton might be able to perform . . . (Surreptitiously he touched a zippered pocket, reassuring himself that a certain slight bulge was still there.) But if Carlton hadn’t answered his call by 0200 hours, he would simply have to take chancier action . . .

  A soft right hand laid itself on his left shoulder, and a familiar crisp mezzo inquired: “Lieutenant Vishnu?”

  Without turning, he took his right hand from the glass and laid its damp coolness on the hand on his shoulder, responding: “Lieutenant Carlton. Please join me.”

  Not taking her hand away, she swung onto the stool at his left. "I'll share your drink. Do you think it will make me as fluid as you at the identity shell game?”

  He perfo
rmed the intricate gambit of lifting his glass to his lips with his left hand while his right hand held her right hand on his left shoulder; and he answered, “I can explain all that on a proper date, but this is no place for one. Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “I have a place on the Manhattan ferry in forty minutes, and my Manhattan apartment would be an excellent place for a date with an aging man who evidently wants to use me to get to Erth for some nefarious reason. Unhappily I have only one place on the ferry. It was the last place.”

  “Would you be willing to sit on my lap on the ferry?”

  Removing her hand from his shoulder, she took his zac and sipped thoughtfully. “Apart from some other angles—how would that work?”

  “Would it fascinate you to find out as we went?”

  “To find out as we go?”

  “Went.”

  “We have thirty-eight minutes, and I have to get my bag.”

  “What room are you in?”

  “1807 Southwest'”

  “I’m in 1815 Southwest.”

  “Next door.”

  “Yes. It was rather like phoning Westchester from Yonkers via Frisco.”

  “We have thirty-seven minutes to compare rooms.”

  He slapped down money, and they dropped into the downdraft and emerged on 18 and went first to her room. He watched while she flung things into her little valise and snapped it shut. Valise in hand, she straightened and looked at him.

  “Nice room,” he commented, “But I bet I like your Erth-side apartment better.”

  “Twenty-six minutes. Let’s see your room.”

  Taking her valise, he seized her hand and drew her into the corridor and released her hand to palm open his own door and repossessed her hand and drew her in. Stationing her in the floor-middle, he picked up his ready valise and hers and straightened. “Let’s go.”

  “No fair,” she complained. “I’ve had not time to compare rooms.”

  “Take my word, they are identical.”

  “I suppose so. Mine has a bidet—does yours?”

  “Affirmative. You’d be amazed what I use it for.”

  “Congratulations—I found no use for mine. We have twenty-four minutes.”

  Urgent haste can resemble flip time-squandering when a cool hastener is satisfied that his speed is the maximum attainable . . .

  At the ferryport, which they were able to reach quite normally by depositing two fares into an uninquisitive taxi, Croyd told Carlton: “Walk in front of me and behave just as though you were boarding alone, but let me do all the talking. I’ll carry both bags. When they ask for my pass and ID, hand yours over and let the people check your retinals.”

  She responded: “We have two minutes thirty-one seconds.”

  Quick-timing down the ferryport corridor, they approached the gate. The gateman asked Croyd for pass and ID. Carlton handed over hers. The gateman nodded at the pass, slipped the ID card into a slot, and asked Croyd for his retinals. Carlton put her eyes to the eyepiece. The computer stated: “Yep, it’s Carlton.” Croyd nudged her, and she stepped into the antigrav and was conveyed into the ferry. As she started for a window seat halfway back, Croyd caught her arm, sat first, and pulled her into his lap. A moment later, a portly three-stripe matron clumped into the adjacent seat, imprisoning them.

  Carlton twisted her head around to whisper: “What—”

  He whispered back: “There is room for you to sit side-wise on my lap facing the window, with your back to the commander here, and relax against me while I breathe boy-girl secrets into your shell-like ear.”

  Puzzled, nevertheless she swung-around sidewise, keeping her hand on his shoulder with her elbow spring-taut; and she muttered, “The commander will find my lap-sitting unbecoming an officer.”

  “She isn’t seeing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Projective hypnosis—the same stuff the gateman got. Nobody is seeing anybody but me, but I am Carlton.”

  Sharp breath-intake. “Horrors! You, a psychic transvestite?”

  “They think I am a man named Carlton. Work out the complications in your own way.”

  She meditated. She inquired: “Can anybody hear us talking?”

  “Nobody is paying attention. I’m screening off interest.”

  She mumbled: “The air conditioning is a bit chilly—” And she relaxed against him, letting her arm slip around his neck.

  Then the ferry was in space—just like that.

  They watched the flat moon surface resolve itself into a dark horizon curve.

  Croyd told her: “The commander here might however be puzzled at seeing your arm crooked out in midair, as my arm appears to be while it encircles your invisible shoulders. So if you don’t mind, I’ll just rest my hand in my lap—right here.”

  The entire moon disc showed now—mostly dark, except for a growing pale crescent glow along one edge.

  Carlton commented: “As to the position of your hand, I appreciate the tactic without necessarily approving. How far could you carry this?”

  “It would break the spell if I should cause you to scream.”

  “This consideration, I assume, is restraining you.”

  “Not necessarily. I believe you would consider it inappropriate for a lieutenant to scream.”

  “Silently, however, I might claw your face.”

  “That is the consideration which is restraining me.”

  The gleaming moon crescent swung away from their viewpoint. Black space was in velvet contrast to the blue pallor of their minimum cabin lighting.

  Carlton’s head lay silently against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed.

  He said softly: “Why did you call me an aging man?”

  She said drowsily: “Mea culpa—I beat my breast. You are a young man, of course.”

  “I asked an honest question. I don’t want flattery.”

  Her eyes flew open: she stared at the viewport which was beginning to reveal a three-quarter-gleaming Erth disc. “You were an aging man. But right now I’d figure you at sixty from some angles and fifty from others. No flattery: hard appraisal. How come?”

  “I’d been sick.”

  She clucked: “Poor guy.” She looked at him sidelong, skeptical: “I figure it differently: you change names, you change identities and ages. You are a Moskovite spy.” “There’s an old story about that”

  “I know the story. Which age is right?”

  “Physiologically, my present age. Psychologically, younger.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Have you been noticing what my left hand is doing?”

  “Yes. Nothing. Why? Oh—” She gazed for a long moment at Erth which was beginning to resolve itself into a recognizably clouded planet, mostly in daylight. She closed her eyes, leaned against his shoulder, and again spoke drowsily: “Were you really an old man, the hand would not be doing nothing.”

  “I have a passion for privacy—and for consent.”

  The matronly commander lit a cigar and inhaled hungrily, discharging, it seemed, smoke from her ears.

  Carlton’s fingers touched his ear as she replied: “Privacy you will have. Consent requires a question.”

  In the small Fiftieth-Street Persian restaurant, over midnight shish kebob, she told him: “I like you better in uniform, Vishnu-Hertz.”

  “Why?”

  “Some stupes think that uniforms erase individuality. Not so, my friend. When everybody wears the same clothes, you aren’t diverted by the clothes, you concentrate on the people. True individuality stands out more in uniform. I caught it the time before that you were different—but boy does it stick out now!”

  “As a matter of male ego, probably I should pursue that.”

  “Don’t. Just accept it. I couldn’t begin to explain it.”

  “I haven’t seen you in civvies—but I am sure I like you better in uniform, Carlton.”

  “Midge to you.”

  “Midge.”

  “As a matter o
f female coy, I wish to pursue that.”

  “Don’t misunderstand—I should like you best without anything at all.”

  “You cad!”

  “Nevertheless, your point about uniformed individuality is well taken, and you have it. More than that, though, there is a certain piquancy about an utterly female person in a male-type uniform.”

  “Every man is at heart a pervert."

  “It takes one to know one. Eat your shish kebob."

  “You—never told me why you are using me.”

  “I am not using you, except as one uses a friend if the friend wishes to be used. Do you wish for me to use you friend-to-friend?”

  “We really aren’t friends—”

  “But, entirely apart from boy-girl interest, perhaps we may become friends?”

  She clanked down her fork and seized his hands, spilling his forkful of wild rice. “I like you, boy or girl. Let’s declare us friends right now!”

  His face grin-split. “Hell, yes, friend!”

  She grinned back. They held it like that, feeling it with internal depth.

  Her grin softened into a contented smile, and she released his hands and went back to her food, saying, “I can make the separation that you are implying, one way or another. And somehow I feel awful good about this.” Then her fork paused in midair, and her smile went guarded, and she looked up at him, adding: “Please don’t be afraid that I would fall in love with you. Unless you wanted me to.”

  He went grave. "I would not be a good man to fall in love with. I have been married twice, and it won’t happen again.”

  She went grave. “Not good?”

  He responded: “Good, but no longer long-range strategic.”

  She nodded once and looked down, frowning. She picked up the skewer and with her front teeth slid a chunk of hot lamb up six inches and off; and she chewed for a while, and swallowed, and washed it down with a gulp of saki. Then she looked up with a happy smile. “I want to marry a young guy. Really young, I mean: thirty, maybe. And have a baby or two. So there. I haven’t met him yet. And pocket your conscience, I’m a bachelor. But selective. Tell me how you want to use me—and you know I didn’t mean that!”