and one alcohol suppressant.
“Ah, weak stuff, that. You must have a time here. Won’t they let you take Gravitol?”
“No; I asked for it, naturally. But they say I’m too old and too fat.” How dangerous is this subtle drunkard? “You have any theory about Malatesta?”
He shrugged and repeated the sloshing gesture. “I really don’t know. I’m sure of one thing, though. This nonsense about the creatures being responsible is just that, a pile of snuurgsh—’scuse me—hogwash.”
“I agree. They simply aren’t capable of violence.”
“Not only that. Malatesta was a great favorite of theirs. He even learned quite a bit of the language. They adoped him into one of the families, an honorary Bruuchian.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yes, he went to a lot of their get-togethers. That priestly council made him an advisor of some sort.”
“Yes,” Crowell mused,“ I heard today that he had been present at one of their stillness rituals.”
“Where they embalm the poor creatures? Well, I didn’t know that. Wonder why he didn’t tell anybody about it? Struckheimer would’ve been his friend for life.”
“Well, as you say, the Bruuchians couldn’t have done away with Malatesta; so it must have been either an accident or murder. I guess the agents investigated both possibilities.”
“Presumably. They seemed to spend most of their time dredging dustpits. Supposedly taking samples, actually looking for a body, I guess.
“I suppose the prime murder suspect would be Kindle, the new Supervisor. But he never wanted the job—it’s twice as much work for only a pittance more pay. Besides, he’s worried that whatever happened to Malatesta could happen to him too.”
“You know him well, then?” Watch it, getting too inquisitive.
“Oh, quite well. He was in the Civil Service when I was posted on Lamarr’s World. He had a considerable block of stock in the Company, and when the Assistant Supervisor position became open, he came out here and took the job. I was transferred here about a year later, and we just picked up where we had left off.”
Time to change the subject. “Lamarr’s World. I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’ve never been there.”
“It was a lovely world.” Fitz-Jones started the sloshing gesture but checked himself. “Especially compared to this desolation.”
They talked of this and other harmless topics for about an hour. Crowell stifled a yawn. “I really must be going. Excuse me for being a poor guest, but I tire so easily in this gravity.”
“Oh, excuse
me
for being an inconsiderate host. I can be quite a bore, I know.” Fitz-Jones helped Crowell up. “I’m afraid you may have some trouble getting a taxi at this hour.”
“No, no problem. I can walk the few blocks.” They exchanged amenities and Crowell lurched away convincingly.
9.
His room had been searched by an amateur; Fitz-Jones’ assistant, probably. He hadn’t caught the hairs pasted over the closet door and suitcase lid, or even the pencil propped against the front
door
. Crowell sighed. Otto was worthy of more.
Anyhow, there was nothing incriminating in the billet itself. Crowell went outside to the outhouse, went in, and latched the door. Trying to ignore the smell, he took out a penstick and removed the cap. Doing so caused the pen to emit an invisible beam of ultraviolet light. Crowell shook the contact lens out of the cap and placed it in his left eye. With it, he could see quite well, though it would still be pitch black to light amplifiers or infrared eye clusters.
The hair across the loosened board was still in place He lifted the board and removed the case that had been his suitcase’s false bottom. He took a few items from it, replaced it, and smoothed the hair down in the position he had memorized.
At midnight the streetlights went off. Crowell donned the nightglasses he had bought at the Company store and walked the kilometer to the main warehouse without meeting
“Ah, weak stuff, that. You must have a time here. Won’t they let you take Gravitol?”
“No; I asked for it, naturally. But they say I’m too old and too fat.” How dangerous is this subtle drunkard? “You have any theory about Malatesta?”
He shrugged and repeated the sloshing gesture. “I really don’t know. I’m sure of one thing, though. This nonsense about the creatures being responsible is just that, a pile of snuurgsh—’scuse me—hogwash.”
“I agree. They simply aren’t capable of violence.”
“Not only that. Malatesta was a great favorite of theirs. He even learned quite a bit of the language. They adoped him into one of the families, an honorary Bruuchian.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Oh yes, he went to a lot of their get-togethers. That priestly council made him an advisor of some sort.”
“Yes,” Crowell mused,“ I heard today that he had been present at one of their stillness rituals.”
“Where they embalm the poor creatures? Well, I didn’t know that. Wonder why he didn’t tell anybody about it? Struckheimer would’ve been his friend for life.”
“Well, as you say, the Bruuchians couldn’t have done away with Malatesta; so it must have been either an accident or murder. I guess the agents investigated both possibilities.”
“Presumably. They seemed to spend most of their time dredging dustpits. Supposedly taking samples, actually looking for a body, I guess.
“I suppose the prime murder suspect would be Kindle, the new Supervisor. But he never wanted the job—it’s twice as much work for only a pittance more pay. Besides, he’s worried that whatever happened to Malatesta could happen to him too.”
“You know him well, then?” Watch it, getting too inquisitive.
“Oh, quite well. He was in the Civil Service when I was posted on Lamarr’s World. He had a considerable block of stock in the Company, and when the Assistant Supervisor position became open, he came out here and took the job. I was transferred here about a year later, and we just picked up where we had left off.”
Time to change the subject. “Lamarr’s World. I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’ve never been there.”
“It was a lovely world.” Fitz-Jones started the sloshing gesture but checked himself. “Especially compared to this desolation.”
They talked of this and other harmless topics for about an hour. Crowell stifled a yawn. “I really must be going. Excuse me for being a poor guest, but I tire so easily in this gravity.”
“Oh, excuse
me
for being an inconsiderate host. I can be quite a bore, I know.” Fitz-Jones helped Crowell up. “I’m afraid you may have some trouble getting a taxi at this hour.”
“No, no problem. I can walk the few blocks.” They exchanged amenities and Crowell lurched away convincingly.
9.
His room had been searched by an amateur; Fitz-Jones’ assistant, probably. He hadn’t caught the hairs pasted over the closet door and suitcase lid, or even the pencil propped against the front
door
. Crowell sighed. Otto was worthy of more.
Anyhow, there was nothing incriminating in the billet itself. Crowell went outside to the outhouse, went in, and latched the door. Trying to ignore the smell, he took out a penstick and removed the cap. Doing so caused the pen to emit an invisible beam of ultraviolet light. Crowell shook the contact lens out of the cap and placed it in his left eye. With it, he could see quite well, though it would still be pitch black to light amplifiers or infrared eye clusters.
The hair across the loosened board was still in place He lifted the board and removed the case that had been his suitcase’s false bottom. He took a few items from it, replaced it, and smoothed the hair down in the position he had memorized.
At midnight the streetlights went off. Crowell donned the nightglasses he had bought at the Company store and walked the kilometer to the main warehouse without meeting
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