Chapter VII

Helen was brushing her long creamy hair at the dressing table when there came a tap at the door to the living room of the suite--a tap so light that it could have been someone accidentally brushing past in the corridor outside. Gabriel sprang up from the bed where he had been lolling, watching her and stood for a moment poised on the balls of his feet, until the knock was repeated more emphatically. He started toward the other room.

“But who could be knocking at the door at this hour?” she asked. “It’s almost one ... Gabe, do be careful.”

He halted and looked back at her suspiciously. “Why do you say that? You know you don’t care what happens to me?” That last was a question rather than a statement and had a plaintive quaver which failed to touch her. Once she had still been able to feel some compassion; now, nothing he said or did could arouse more than fear and disgust.

“If somebody knocks you over the head when you open the door,” she murmured, smiling at her own image, “then who will be there to protect me?”

A choked sound came from the back of the man’s throat. He turned toward her, his fists clenched. She braced herself for the blow, but then the knock came for the third time and her husband reluctantly continued on into the living room, letting the door shut behind him. She rose and pushed it open a little. She had a pretty good idea of who might be expected, but was not especially perturbed, for she knew the real Gabriel Lockard, in whatever guise he might be now, was safe from her husband. And she was curious to see what the exterminator looked like.

The door to the corridor was out of her line of vision, but she could hear it as it opened. “Lockard?” a deep, husky voice whispered. “Gorman sent me.”

“Come in, Mr. Carmody. You are Carmody?”

“Shhh,” the husky voice warned. “If you get me into trouble, I’m not going to be able to complete your pattern for you, am I?”

“Sorry--I wasn’t thinking. Come on in.”

A heavy tread shook the ancient floorboards, and presently the man responsible for it came into the girl’s sight. He was a huge creature, bigger even than Gabriel, with dark hair growing low to a point on his forehead, and a full-lipped sensual face. Then, as he spoke, as he moved, she knew who he was. She pressed close against the wall of the bedroom, her slender shoulders shaking, her handkerchief stuffed into her mouth, so that the sound of her wild, irrepressible laughter would not reach her husband’s ears.

“Sit down, Carmody,” Gabriel said cordially, as he handed the newcomer a glass, “and make yourself comfortable.” There was a brief, rather awkward silence. “Well,” Gabriel went on, with a smile that would have been thoroughly ingratiating to anyone who hadn’t known him, “I don’t suppose I have to cruise around the asteroids with you?”

“No,” Carmody replied, looking speculatively toward the bedroom door. “No, you don’t.”

Gabriel followed the direction of his gaze. “Worried about somebody overhearing? There’s only my wife in there. She’s listening, all right, but she won’t talk. Come in, Helen.”

Carmody rose automatically as she came in, his dark eyes following every line of her long, smooth body in its close-fitting, though opaque, negligee of smoke-gray silk--a fabric which, through extreme scarcity, had come into fashion again.

“Sit down,” Gabriel ordered brusquely. “We’re not formal here.”

Carmody sat, trying not to stare at the girl. She began to mix herself a drink. “Moonbeam,” her husband said, “you won’t tell anybody about this little peace conference, will you?”

“No,” she said, looking at Carmody. “I won’t talk.” She lifted her glass. “Here’s to murder!”

“Helen,” Gabriel insisted, unable to rationalize the vague uneasiness that was nagging at him, “you won’t dare say anything to anybody? Because, if you do, you’ll regret it!”

“I said I wouldn’t talk. Have I ever broken my word?”

“You’ve never had the chance.” But it would be incredible that she should have the temerity to betray him. After all, she was his wife. She should stick to him out of gratitude and self-interest, for he was rich, at least, and he wasn’t exactly repulsive. And he’d been good to her. All men lost their tempers at times.

“Let’s get down to business, huh?” Carmody said harshly. “Whom do you want knocked off?”

“I don’t know his name,” Gabriel replied, “but I can describe him.”

After he had finished doing so, there was a small pause. Carmody was silent. Helen turned back to the bar; her face was concealed from the men. Her body shook a little. Lockard thought she was crying, and wondered again whether his confidence in her was entirely justified.

“I think maybe I know the guy,” Carmody went on. “Only been around the--the parish a couple of days, if it’s the life-form I mean.”

“Must be the one,” Lockard told him. “Think you can do it?”

“A cinch,” Carmody assured him.

As Helen Lockard emerged from the door marked Females; Human and Humanoid, and rounded the turn in the corridor, a brawny arm reached out of a vidiphone booth and yanked her inside. The girl gave a startled cry, then relaxed. “Oh, it’s you; you gave me a turn.”

“You’re not afraid? You know who I am, then?”

She nodded. “You’re the real Gabriel Lockard.” His big body was pressing hers in the close-fitting confines of the booth. In some ways it could be considered more attractive than her husband’s. “Why are you hiding here?”

“I’m not hiding, I’m lurking,” he explained. “Wouldn’t do for me to appear too openly. The police--that is, the hounds--are on Carmody’s trail. I don’t want them to find me.”