Chapter 12

An hour before dawn there was a noise in my room. I roused, my hand on my skean. Someone or something was fumbling under the mattress where I had thrust Evarin’s bird. I struck out, encountered something warm and breathing, and grappled with it in the darkness. A foul-smelling something gripped over my mouth. I tore it away and struck hard with the skean. There was a high shrilling. The gripping filth loosened and fell away and something died on the floor.

I struck a light, retching in revulsion. It hadn’t been human. There wouldn’t have been that much blood from a human. Not that color, either.

The chak who ran the place came and gibbered at me. Chaks have a horror of blood and this one gave me to understand that my lease was up then and there, no arguments, no refunds. He wouldn’t even let me go into his stone outbuilding to wash the foul stuff from my shirtcloak. I gave up and fished under the mattress for Evarin’s Toy.

The chak got a glimpse of the embroideries on the silk in which it was wrapped, and stood back, his loose furry lips hanging open, while I gathered my few belongings together and strode out of the room. He would not touch the coins I offered; I laid them on a chest and he let them lie there, and as I went into the reddening morning they came flying after me into the street.

I pulled the silk from the Toy and tried to make some sense from my predicament. The little thing lay innocent and silent in my palm. It wouldn’t tell me whether it had been keyed to me, the real Cargill, some time in the past, or to Rakhal, using my name and reputation in the Terran Colony here at Charin.

If I pressed the stud it might play out this comedy of errors by hunting down Rakhal, and all my troubles would be over. For a while, at least, until Evarin found out what had happened. I didn’t deceive myself that I could carry the impersonation through another meeting.

On the other hand, if I pressed the stud, the bird might turn on me. And then all my troubles would be over for good.

If I delayed past Evarin’s deadline, and did nothing, the other bird in his keeping would hunt down Juli and give her a swift and not too painless death.

I spent most of the day in a chak dive, juggling plans. Toys, innocent and sinister. Spies, messengers. Toys which killed horribly. Toys which could be controlled, perhaps, by the pliant mind of a child, and every child hates its parents now and again!

Even in the Terran colony, who was safe? In Mack’s very home, one of the Magnusson youngsters had a shiny thing which might, or might not, be one of Evarin’s hellish Toys. Or was I beginning to think like a superstitious Dry-towner?

Damn it, Evarin couldn’t be infallible; he hadn’t even recognized me as Race Cargill! Or--suddenly the sweat broke out, again, on my forehead--or had he? Had the whole thing been one of those sinister, deadly and incomprehensible nonhuman jokes?

I kept coming to the same conclusion. Juli was in danger, but she was half a world away. Rakhal was here in Charin. There was a child involved--Juli’s child. The first step was to get inside the Terran colony and see how the land lay.

Charin is a city shaped like a crescent moon, encircling the small Trade City: a miniature spaceport, a miniature skyscraper HQ, the clustered dwellings of the Terrans who worked there, and those who lived with them and supplied them with necessities, services and luxuries.

Entry from one to the other is through a guarded gateway, since this is hostile territory, and Charin lies far beyond the impress of ordinary Terran law. But the gate stood wide-open, and the guards looked lax and bored. They had shockers, but they didn’t look as if they’d used them lately.

One raised an eyebrow at his companion as I shambled up. I could pretty well guess the impression I made, dirty, unkempt and stained with nonhuman blood. I asked permission to go into the Terran Zone.

They asked my name and business, and I toyed with the notion of giving the name of the man I was inadvertently impersonating. Then I decided that if Rakhal had passed himself off as Race Cargill, he’d expect exactly that. And he was also capable of the masterstroke of impudence--putting out a pickup order, through Spaceforce, for his own name!

So I gave the name we’d used from Shainsa to Charin, and tacked one of the Secret Service passwords on the end of it. They looked at each other again and one said, “Rascar, eh? This is the guy, all right.” He took me into the little booth by the gate while the other used an intercom device. Presently they took me along into the HQ building, and into an office that said “Legate.”

I tried not to panic, but it wasn’t easy! Evidently I’d walked square into another trap. One guard asked me, “All right, now, what exactly is your business in the Trade City?”

I’d hoped to locate Rakhal first. Now I knew I’d have no chance and at all costs I must straighten out this matter of identity before it went any further.

“Put me straight through to Magnusson’s office, Level 38 at Central HQ, by visi,” I demanded. I was trying to remember if Mack had ever even heard the name we used in Shainsa. I decided I couldn’t risk it. “Name of Race Cargill.”

The guard grinned without moving. He said to his partner, “That’s the one, all right.” He put a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around.

“Haul off, man. Shake your boots.”

There were two of them, and Spaceforce guards aren’t picked for their good looks. Just the same, I gave a pretty good account of myself until the inner door opened and a man came storming out.

“What the devil is all this racket?”

One guard got a hammerlock on me. “This Dry-towner bum tried to talk us into making a priority call to Magnusson, the Chief at Central. He knew a couple of the S.S. passwords. That’s what got him through the gate. Remember, Cargill passed the word that somebody would turn up trying to impersonate him.”