Behind the guards there
was no trace of the first counselor.
He went closer. Still no warning of danger. The same old technician
shuffled in front of the entrance. A horrible thought hit him. It was
easy enough to verify. Another "reorganization" had taken place. The
new sign read:
STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU
STAB Your Hour of Need
Delly Mortinbras, first counselor
Cassal leaned against the building, unable to understand what it was that
frightened and bewildered him. Then it gradually became, if not clear,
at least not quite so muddy.
STAB was the word that had been printed on the card in the money clip
that his assailant in the alley had left behind. Cassal had naturally
interpreted it as an order to the thug. It wasn't, of course.
The first time Cassal had visited the Travelers Aid Bureau, it had been
in the process of reorganization. The only purpose of the reorganization,
he realized now, had been to change the name so he wouldn't translate
the word on the slip into the original initials of the Bureau.
Now it probably didn't matter any more whether or not he knew, so the
name had been changed back to Star Travelers Aid Bureau -- STAB.
That, he saw bitterly, was why Murra Foray had been so positive that the
identification tab he'd made with the aid of Dimanche had been a forgery.
*She had known the man who robbed Cassal of the original one, perhaps
had even helped him plan the theft.*
That didn't make sense to Cassal. Yet it had to. He'd suspected the
organization of. being a racket, but it obviously wasn't. By whatever
name it was called, it actually was dedicated to helping the stranded
traveler. The question was -- which travelers?
There must be agency operatives at the spaceport, checking every likely
prospect who arrived, finding out where they were going, whether their
papers were in order. Then, just as had happened to Cassal, the prospect
was robbed of his papers so somebody stranded here could go on to that
destination!
The shabby, aging technician finished changing the last door sign and
hobbled over to Cassal. He peered through the rain and darkness.
"You stuck here, too?" he quavered.
"No," said Cassal with dignity, shaky dignity. "I'm not stuck. I'm here
because I want to be."
"You're crazy," declared the old man. "I remember--" ,
Cassal didn't wait to find out what it was he remembered. An impossible
land, perhaps, a planet which swings in perfect orbit around an ideal
sun. A continent which reared a purple mountain range to hold up a honey
sky. People with whom anyone could relax easily and without worry or
anxiety. In short, his own native world from which, at night, all the
constellations were familiar.
Somehow, Cassal managed to get back to his suite, tumbled wearily onto
his bed. The showdown wasn't going to take place.
Everyone connected with the agency -- including Murra Foray -- had been
"stuck here" for one reason or another; no identification tab, no money,
whatever it was. That was the staff of the Bureau, a pack of desperate
castaways. The "philanthropy" extended to them and nobody else. They
grabbed their tabs and money from the likeliest travelers, leaving them
marooned here and they in turn had to join the Bureau and use the same
methods to continue their journeys through the Galaxy.
It was an endless belt of stranded travelers robbing and stranding other
travelers, who then had to rob and strand still others, and so on and
on. . .
Cassal didn't have a chance of catching up with Murra Foray. She had
used the time -- and Dimanche -- to create her own identification tab
and escape. She was going back to Kettikat, home of the Huntners, must
already be light-years away.
Or was she? The signs on the Bureau had just been changed. Perhaps the
ship was still in the spaceport, or cruising along below the speed of
light. He shrugged
was no trace of the first counselor.
He went closer. Still no warning of danger. The same old technician
shuffled in front of the entrance. A horrible thought hit him. It was
easy enough to verify. Another "reorganization" had taken place. The
new sign read:
STAR TRAVELERS AID BUREAU
STAB Your Hour of Need
Delly Mortinbras, first counselor
Cassal leaned against the building, unable to understand what it was that
frightened and bewildered him. Then it gradually became, if not clear,
at least not quite so muddy.
STAB was the word that had been printed on the card in the money clip
that his assailant in the alley had left behind. Cassal had naturally
interpreted it as an order to the thug. It wasn't, of course.
The first time Cassal had visited the Travelers Aid Bureau, it had been
in the process of reorganization. The only purpose of the reorganization,
he realized now, had been to change the name so he wouldn't translate
the word on the slip into the original initials of the Bureau.
Now it probably didn't matter any more whether or not he knew, so the
name had been changed back to Star Travelers Aid Bureau -- STAB.
That, he saw bitterly, was why Murra Foray had been so positive that the
identification tab he'd made with the aid of Dimanche had been a forgery.
*She had known the man who robbed Cassal of the original one, perhaps
had even helped him plan the theft.*
That didn't make sense to Cassal. Yet it had to. He'd suspected the
organization of. being a racket, but it obviously wasn't. By whatever
name it was called, it actually was dedicated to helping the stranded
traveler. The question was -- which travelers?
There must be agency operatives at the spaceport, checking every likely
prospect who arrived, finding out where they were going, whether their
papers were in order. Then, just as had happened to Cassal, the prospect
was robbed of his papers so somebody stranded here could go on to that
destination!
The shabby, aging technician finished changing the last door sign and
hobbled over to Cassal. He peered through the rain and darkness.
"You stuck here, too?" he quavered.
"No," said Cassal with dignity, shaky dignity. "I'm not stuck. I'm here
because I want to be."
"You're crazy," declared the old man. "I remember--" ,
Cassal didn't wait to find out what it was he remembered. An impossible
land, perhaps, a planet which swings in perfect orbit around an ideal
sun. A continent which reared a purple mountain range to hold up a honey
sky. People with whom anyone could relax easily and without worry or
anxiety. In short, his own native world from which, at night, all the
constellations were familiar.
Somehow, Cassal managed to get back to his suite, tumbled wearily onto
his bed. The showdown wasn't going to take place.
Everyone connected with the agency -- including Murra Foray -- had been
"stuck here" for one reason or another; no identification tab, no money,
whatever it was. That was the staff of the Bureau, a pack of desperate
castaways. The "philanthropy" extended to them and nobody else. They
grabbed their tabs and money from the likeliest travelers, leaving them
marooned here and they in turn had to join the Bureau and use the same
methods to continue their journeys through the Galaxy.
It was an endless belt of stranded travelers robbing and stranding other
travelers, who then had to rob and strand still others, and so on and
on. . .
Cassal didn't have a chance of catching up with Murra Foray. She had
used the time -- and Dimanche -- to create her own identification tab
and escape. She was going back to Kettikat, home of the Huntners, must
already be light-years away.
Or was she? The signs on the Bureau had just been changed. Perhaps the
ship was still in the spaceport, or cruising along below the speed of
light. He shrugged
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