When the closure was finally made, he nodded abruptly to them all.
"Good evening..."
He was gone before the sound of his voice had died on the ear. "And now, back down to the dinner?" Martin said to Armage. "By all means," said the Constable.
Armage led the way out of the room. Behind the big man's back Martin paused to wink at Jef, before he followed. Jef turned to go too, but Mikey made a small, questioning, humming sound deep in his throat. Turning back, Jef saw the maolot standing in the center of the room, his head seeking blindly from side to side. A shivering motion trembled the massive shoulders.
"It's all right," said Jef. He came back to Mikey and put his hand on the maolot's head. "I'm not going. I'll stay here with you."
Mikey shoved his blunt muzzle gratefully against Jef, almost knocking him over. Jef sat down on a chair and let the maolot drop his head on one knee.
"They can send me up a sandwich—I hope," said Jef.
It turned out that something more than a sandwich could be sent up. Tibur rolled in a wheeled table with the same dinner the rest would be sitting down to below in about half an hour.
Jef ate, and fed Mikey with the wisent meat Tibur had provided for the maolot. Afterwards, however, sitting listening to the faint sound of voices filtering up from the dining room on the floor below, he found himself back mulling an old problem. Once more Martin had come to the rescue, this time with a glib explanation of Jef's reason for being here with the maolot.
It was not that these efforts of Martin's were not welcome. It was just that they had become too frequent to be comfortable and the unanswered question of why he should exercise himself in this way was becoming a clamor in the back of Jef's mind. If the reason was a good or honest one, why had Martin been so shy about giving it, when Jef had asked? A deep-felt suspicion that there was something less than right about Martin had been solidifying in Jef's mind for some time now.
If only there was some way he could find out more about the man. Jef got up and paced the floor of the room, causing Mikey to lift his head and follow the sound of Jef's movements with it.
"I'll be right back," Jef said to the maolot after a few minutes. "I'm just going to look next door."
He stepped out the door of his own room, locking it behind him, and walked to the door of Martin's suite. But, as he had expected, it was also firmly locked. When he put his hand on the door panel and pushed on it, it did not open—but it did move slightly, making a clunking sound.
Jef lifted his hand away, then pushed again. Once more there was the sound. He tried pushing this way several times, and found that not merely the door, but the frame and door moved slightly when he pushed on it. A little further investigation gave the reason. For all of its colonial impressiveness, Armage's house had been put together either hastily or carelessly. The door was a unit taken from some space-going cargo vessel. But it had evidently been set in a frame in the wall of the corridor that had been cut just a little too large.
Jef checked the amount of looseness. The door could be lifted almost enough to free the latch-bar from its socket in the frame. But not quite. It held just enough to keep him barred from Martin's room. For a second, as he stood staring at the door, he was struck with the incongruity of his sense of outrage that some inanimate object should be frustrating his attempt to make an unlawful entry. Then common sense was put aside. He must get in, somehow.
He could lift the door, using the very tips of his fingers—which were all that could get a purchase on the barely raised ornamental molding that crossed the door panel halfway up. But the minute he lifted it more than a centimeter, the angle of his fingertips became such that his hold slipped. If he could somehow lift, let go and grab for the handhold he had just made available by lifting the bottom edge of frame and door clear
"Good evening..."
He was gone before the sound of his voice had died on the ear. "And now, back down to the dinner?" Martin said to Armage. "By all means," said the Constable.
Armage led the way out of the room. Behind the big man's back Martin paused to wink at Jef, before he followed. Jef turned to go too, but Mikey made a small, questioning, humming sound deep in his throat. Turning back, Jef saw the maolot standing in the center of the room, his head seeking blindly from side to side. A shivering motion trembled the massive shoulders.
"It's all right," said Jef. He came back to Mikey and put his hand on the maolot's head. "I'm not going. I'll stay here with you."
Mikey shoved his blunt muzzle gratefully against Jef, almost knocking him over. Jef sat down on a chair and let the maolot drop his head on one knee.
"They can send me up a sandwich—I hope," said Jef.
It turned out that something more than a sandwich could be sent up. Tibur rolled in a wheeled table with the same dinner the rest would be sitting down to below in about half an hour.
Jef ate, and fed Mikey with the wisent meat Tibur had provided for the maolot. Afterwards, however, sitting listening to the faint sound of voices filtering up from the dining room on the floor below, he found himself back mulling an old problem. Once more Martin had come to the rescue, this time with a glib explanation of Jef's reason for being here with the maolot.
It was not that these efforts of Martin's were not welcome. It was just that they had become too frequent to be comfortable and the unanswered question of why he should exercise himself in this way was becoming a clamor in the back of Jef's mind. If the reason was a good or honest one, why had Martin been so shy about giving it, when Jef had asked? A deep-felt suspicion that there was something less than right about Martin had been solidifying in Jef's mind for some time now.
If only there was some way he could find out more about the man. Jef got up and paced the floor of the room, causing Mikey to lift his head and follow the sound of Jef's movements with it.
"I'll be right back," Jef said to the maolot after a few minutes. "I'm just going to look next door."
He stepped out the door of his own room, locking it behind him, and walked to the door of Martin's suite. But, as he had expected, it was also firmly locked. When he put his hand on the door panel and pushed on it, it did not open—but it did move slightly, making a clunking sound.
Jef lifted his hand away, then pushed again. Once more there was the sound. He tried pushing this way several times, and found that not merely the door, but the frame and door moved slightly when he pushed on it. A little further investigation gave the reason. For all of its colonial impressiveness, Armage's house had been put together either hastily or carelessly. The door was a unit taken from some space-going cargo vessel. But it had evidently been set in a frame in the wall of the corridor that had been cut just a little too large.
Jef checked the amount of looseness. The door could be lifted almost enough to free the latch-bar from its socket in the frame. But not quite. It held just enough to keep him barred from Martin's room. For a second, as he stood staring at the door, he was struck with the incongruity of his sense of outrage that some inanimate object should be frustrating his attempt to make an unlawful entry. Then common sense was put aside. He must get in, somehow.
He could lift the door, using the very tips of his fingers—which were all that could get a purchase on the barely raised ornamental molding that crossed the door panel halfway up. But the minute he lifted it more than a centimeter, the angle of his fingertips became such that his hold slipped. If he could somehow lift, let go and grab for the handhold he had just made available by lifting the bottom edge of frame and door clear
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