Chapter 16

The Precol headquarters dome on Manon Planet was still in the spot where Trigger had left it, looking unchanged; but everything else in the area seemed to have been moved, improved, expanded or taken away entirely, and unfamiliar features had appeared. In the screens of Commissioner Tate’s Precol offices, Trigger could see both the new metropolitan-sized spaceport on which the Dawn City had set down that morning, and the towering glassy structures of the giant shopping and recreation center, which had been opened here recently by Grand Commerce in its bid for a cut of prospective outworld salaries. The salaries weren’t entirely prospective either.

Ten miles away on the other side of Headquarters dome, new squares of living domes were sprouting up daily. At this morning’s count they housed fifty-two thousand people. The Hub’s major industries and assorted branches of Federation government had established a solid foothold on Manon.

Trigger turned her head as Holati Tate came into the office. He closed the door carefully behind him.

“How’s the little critter doing?” he asked.

“Still absorbing the goop,” Trigger said. She held Mantelish’s small mystery plasmoid cupped lightly between thumbs and fingers, its bottom side down in a shallow bowl half full of something which Mantelish considered to be nutritive for plasmoids, or at least for this one. Its sides pulsed lightly and regularly against her palms. “The level of the stuff keeps going down,” she added.

“Good,” said Holati. He pulled a chair up to the table and sat down opposite her. He looked broodingly at plasmoid 113-A.

“You really think this thing likes me--personally?” Trigger inquired.

Her boss said, “It’s eating, isn’t it? And moving. There were a couple of days before you got here when it looked pretty dead to me.”

“Hard to believe,” Trigger observed, “that a sort of leech-looking thing could distinguish between people.”

“This one can. Do you get any sensations while holding it?”

“Sensations?” She considered. “Nothing particular. It’s just like I said the other time--little Repulsive is rather nice to feel.”

“For you,” he said. “I didn’t tell you everything.”

“You rarely do,” Trigger remarked.

“I’ll tell you now,” said Holati. “The day after we left, when it started acting very agitated and then very droopy, Mantelish said it might be missing the female touch it had got from you. He was being facetious, I think. But I couldn’t see any reason not to try it, so I called in your facsimile and had her sit down at the table where the thing was lying.”

“Yes?”

“Well, first it came flying up to her, crying ‘Mama!’ Not actually, of course. Then it touched her hand and recoiled in horror.”

Trigger raised an eyebrow.

“It looked like it,” he insisted. “We all commented on it. So then she reached out and touched it. Then she recoiled in horror.”

“Why?”

“She said it had given her a very nasty electric jolt. Apparently like the one it gave Mantelish.”

Trigger glanced down dubiously at Repulsive. “Gee, thanks for letting me hold it, Holati! It seems to have stopped eating now, by the way. Or whatever it does. Doesn’t look much fatter if any, does it?”

The Commissioner looked. “No,” he said. “And if you weighed it, you’d probably find it still weighs an exact three and a half pounds. Mantelish feels the thing turns any food intake directly into energy.”

“Then it should be able to produce a very nice jolt at the moment,” Trigger commented. “Now, what do I do with Repulsive?”

Holati took a towel from beneath the table and spread it out. “Absorbent material,” he said. “Lay it on that and just let it dry. That’s what we used to do.”

Trigger shook her head. “Next thing, I’ll be changing its diapers!”

“It isn’t that bad,” the Commissioner said. “Anyway, you will adopt baby, won’t you?”

“I suppose I have to.” She placed the plasmoid on the towel, wiped her hands and stepped back from it. “What happens if it falls on the floor?”

“Nothing,” Holati said. “It just moves on in the direction it was going. Pretty hard to hurt those things.”

“In that case,” Trigger said, “let’s check out its container now.”

The Commissioner took Repulsive’s container out of a desk safe and handed it to her. Its outer appearance was that of a neat modern woman’s handbag with a shoulder strap. It had an antigrav setting which would reduce its overall weight, with the plasmoid inside, down to nine ounces if Trigger wanted it that way. It also had a combination lock, unmarked, virtually invisible, the settings of which Trigger already had memorized. Without knowing the settings, a determined man using a high-powered needle blaster might have opened the handbag in around nine hours. A very special job.

Trigger ran through the settings, opened the container and peered inside. “Rather cramped,” she observed.

“Not for one of them. We needed room for the gadgetry.”

“Yes,” she said. “Subspace rotation.” She shook her head. “Is that another Space Scout invention?”

“No,” said Holati. “They stole it from Subspace Engineers. Engineers don’t know we have it yet. Far as I know, nobody else has got it from them. Go ahead--give it a try.”

“I was going to.” Trigger snapped the container shut, slipped the strap over her shoulder and stood straight, left hand closed over the lower rim of the purselike object. She shifted the ball of her thumb and the tip of her middle finger to the correct spots and began to apply pressure. Then she started. Handbag and strap had vanished.

“Feels odd!” She smiled. “And to bring it back, I just have to be here--the same place--and say those words.”

He nodded. “Want to try that now?”

Trigger waved her left hand gently through the air beside her. “What happens,” she asked, “if the thing surfaces exactly where my hand happens to be?”

“It won’t surface if there’s anything bulkier than a few dust motes in the way. That’s one improvement the Sub Engineers haven’t heard about yet.”

“Well...” She glanced around, picked up a plastic ruler from the desk behind her, and moved back a cautious step. She waved the ruler’s tip gingerly about in the area where the handbag had been.

“Come, Fido!” she said.

Nothing happened. She drew the ruler back.

“Come, Fido!”

Handbag and strap materialized in mid-air and thumped to the floor.

“Convinced?” Holati asked. He picked up the handbag and gave it back to her.

“It seems to work. How long will that little plasmoid last if it’s left in subspace like that?”

He shrugged. “Indefinitely, probably. They’re tough. We know that twenty-four hours at a stretch won’t bother it in the least, so we’ve set that as the limit it’s to stay rotated except in emergencies.”

“And you--and one other person I’m not to know about, but who isn’t anywhere near here--can also bring it back?”

“Yes. If we know the place from which it’s been rotated. So the agreement is that--again except in absolute emergencies--it will be rotated only from one of the six points specified and known to all three of us.”

Trigger nodded. She opened the container and went over to the table where the plasmoid still lay on its towel. It was dry by now. She picked it up.

“You’re a lot of trouble, Repulsive!” she told it. “But these people think you must be worth it.” She slipped it into the container, and it seemed to snuggle down comfortably inside. Trigger closed the handbag, lightened it to half its normal weight, slipped the strap back over her left shoulder. “And now,” she inquired, “what am I to do with the stuff I usually keep in a purse?”

“You’ll be in Precol uniform while you’re here. We’ve had a special uniform made for you. Extra pockets.”

Trigger sighed.

“Oh, they’re quite inconspicuous and convenient,” he assured her. “We checked with the girls on that.”

“I’ll bet!” she said. “Did they okay the porgee pouch too?”

“Sure. Porgee doping is a big thing all over the Hub at the moment. Among the ladies anyway. Shows you’re the delicate sort, or something like that. I forget what they said. Want to start carrying it?”

“Hand it over,” Trigger said resignedly. “I did see quite a few pouches on the ship. Might as well get people used to thinking I’ve turned into a porgee sniffer.”

Holati went back to the desk safe and took out a flat pouch, the length of his hand but narrower. He gave it to her. It appeared to be worked of gold thread; one side was studded with tiny pearls, the opposite surface was plain. Trigger laid the plain side against the cloth of her skirt, just below the right hip, and let go. It adhered there. She stretched her right leg out to the side and considered the porgee pouch.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” she conceded. “That’s real porgee in the top section?”

“The real article. Close to nine hundred and fifty credits worth.”

“Suppose somebody wants to borrow a sniff? Wouldn’t be good to have them fumbling around the pouch very much!”