Scame nodded. He eased himself out of the closet. In the washroom he paused to examine himself in a mirror. His face was gone. In place of it was a different face altogether, with a different shape and a different texture. It was totally convincing. The hair was dif-72
ferent, too. It was as if he had been given a new head.
Coming out into the main concourse he came briefly in view of platform sixteen again and could not resist talcing a glance. His Wheel escorts, thinking he had taken more than long enough, were heading for the toilets.
“Keep going,” said a gruff voice behind him. “Make for the travel cubicles, fast but easy. Those goons are about to discover you’ve given them the slip and they’re liable to do something drastic.”
Scarne hurried on until they both entered a travel cubicle. The agent tapped out a destination, then turned to him with a knowing smile as the tiny room zipped on its way.
“That wasn’t too hard, was it? You can take that face off now. Here, let me help you.”
He placed his hands on Scarne’s neck and tugged. There was a faint ripping sound as the mask came away. Scarne touched his cheeks with his fingers. They were warm.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Don’t worry, it’s all being taken care of.”
There was a holset in the corner of the cubicle. Scame pointed to it. “I want you to put me in touch with Magdan.”
“Who’s Magdan?”
“My controller-until recently. That’s the only name-1 have for him: Magdan.” He spoke with flinty patience. “Get him for me.”
Moving at speed through Sanfran’s conveyor system, the cubicle jerked and swayed. The agent stared at him. “Are you crazy or something? You ought to know there’s no way I could do that.”
Scarne avoided his rescuer’s gaze. He’s probably right, he thought. The time to make his play, he decided, would be when he got to debriefing.
Neither spoke further, and shortly the cubicle slowed. The agent tapped out another code on the address register, taking them through a secret routing gate, at
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which they speeded up again before sliding smoothly to a stop.
As he left the cubicle and emerged into a long corridor Scame immediately felt that he had been here before. This was where he had previously been briefed and addicted. The walls were the same shade of green. He was ushered down a passage and into a side room he also thought he remembered. The furniture, the layout, everything.
A big, cadaverous-looking man sat behind the desk. He directed a bright, dazzling light onto Scarne’s face.
“Sit down,” he ordered.
Scame groped his way to the seat. “Would you mind turning the light off?” he complained. “It stops me thinking properly.”
The glare diminished a little in intensity, enabling him to make out the debriefing officer’s enormous head. “Been up on Luna, have you?” The man’s voice was almost caressing. “Got something for us?”
“I was at Marguerite Dom’s demesne. I met the Wheel’s top mathematicians there.”
“And they gave you the equations? Just like that?” The caress became menacing, scornful.
Scame licked his lips. “It wasn’t so hard, really. I saw some secret papers. I more or less have the run of the place-they think I have talent, they trust me.” He raised his voice. “But I didn’t make a record of them. It’s all in my head. Before I tell what I know I want your part of the arrangement fulfilled. I want the antidote.”
A short, explosive half-snarl, half-laugh came from the other side of the light. “What are you trying on, Scarne? I’ll get a randomatician in here and you can talk to him. Later-well, we’ll see.”
“No. I won’t talk. I want the antidote.”
“You fool, don’t you know we can get anything we want out of you?”
“Easier to give me the antidote.” He leaned forward. “Unless I’m mistaken, I’ve been in this building before. You have a laboratory here somewhere. Take
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me there and give me the antidote. Then I’ll talk.” A whine came into his voice. “I haven’t had a dose for three days. I didn’t take my supply with me to Luna.”
A door opened at the back of the room. A tall, slender figure stood there, hazy in Scarne’s dazzled vision, then moved to just behind the debriefing officer. “These equations are so easy to memorize? That sounds improbable.”
“No, they’re not. I’ll probably have lost most of it in a few hours, if I don’t write it down. I don’t have all of it at that-just enough to make the case clear.”
The newcomer sighed, turning to the seated man. “How tiresome he is. All right, have his releaser brought up here, and we need waste no more time.”
Scarne shook his head vigorously, aware that he was whining. “Not good enough. You could give me anything-just water.” His words came out in an eager rush. “I want to go down, myself, to the laboratory-the same one where I was given that foul stuff. I want to see the antidote in its bottle, I want to see it put in the hypo. Then I’ll know it’s the right one.”
“How will you know?”
“�ll know.”
The tall man leaned down and switched off the spotlight. “You are a nuisance, Mr. Scame. You are playing games with us. Well, come along.”
As Scame’s eyes adjusted to the room’s normal light he saw that the second officer had a smooth, round face and a long, gawky neck. His eyes were bright and staring, like polished pebbles. But his movements, as he stepped towards the door to the corridor, were smooth and self-assured.
Meekly, Scame went with him.
The drugs laboratory was several levels further down, confirming Scame’s belief that he was in the Secret Intelligence Service’s main center of Earth operations. He remembered it when he walked into it:
the long benches, the racks of vials. Everything neat and tidy. It was like walking into a recurring nightmare.
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A moonfaced biochemist in a white smock came towards them smiling. “Another customer?” he greeted, looking Scame up and down. “I dare say we can find him something to fit.” He chuckled.
With a disclaiming gesture Scame’s companion explained that Scame was to be ‘normalized’. Scame followed every word of their conversation avidly. He poked into every moment of the transaction like someone who knew he would be cheated if the opportunity arose for but one instant. When the vial arrived he grabbed at it, reading the number pasted on it. HJ30795/N. He had memorized that number; it had been on the bottle from which he had been addicted. But what was the N?
“N for normalization,” the biochemist said reassur-ingly. The smile never left bis face; it was fixed there.
Somehow it was too easy, too glib. But they want the equations badly, he told himself. And �� not out of here yet. I still have to convince them they’ve got something, and head back to the Grand Wheel. Only they can protect me now.
The dermal spray hissed into his arm. “How long will it take?” he asked.
“Only a few minutes. The releaser is a related compound that forms a bipole with each molecule of the addictive substance. The new compound so formed is more complicated. It gives the same relief as the old drug but phases out the addiction, preventing withdrawal symptoms. You’ll feel weak, perhaps slightly dizzy for a day or two, then you’ll be as good as new.”
“Now are you satisfied, Mr. Scame?” the SIS interrogator said indignantly, turning his pebble eyes on him. “If you would kindly step in here, please …” He gestured to a side door. Through it was a small interview room. He sat down, placing a recorder box on the table.
“Though not as accomplished as yourself, I imagine, I also am a trained randomatidan,” he told Scame. “Would you please be good enough to give us what data you have.”
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“You’ve made a mess of your situation, Scarne. Trying to fool us with this-junk! Now you’re going to have to make it back into the Wheel as best you can. You’re on your own. If you can’t come up with something genuine soon …”
“They’re up there,” Scame groaned. “I swear to the gods the equations are up there on Luna…”
The nightmarish vision collapsed into a jumble of vague impressions, of disturbed mutterings and blank periods accompanied by nothing except nausea.
He awoke to find himself lying on a bench. Above him soared the vautled roof of Sanfran station, and for some moments he stared at it, unable to move. Then, with an effort, he levered himself to a sitting position, his head throbbing.
As he checked the time, he noticed that he was wearing his own clothes again. Just over an hour had passed since he had entered the washroom on platform sixteen. His body like lead, he dragged himself to the nearest holbooth, and soon, after getting the number from the directory, he was through to the Make-Out Club.