“There are no riders on Norden today,” Troy pointed out. He was watching Rerne, and again it seemed to him that the Hunter was two-minded, about to speak and then thinking better of it. Instead he nodded and Troy took that gesture for one of dismissal. He lifted his own hand in a small salute—one of equality though he was not aware of that—and walked away from the booth. Why was he gnawed by the feeling that he had just slammed a door irrevocably, a door that might have opened on a new world? There was an ache of disappointment in him that was like the bite of an old unappeasable hunger.
He pushed through the crowds, hardly noticing those about him, made his way back to the shop and the side entrance into the courtyard. Slapping his hand against the signal plate, he waited for the night yardman to activate the open beam for him. But instead, at that touch from his open palm, the panel swung inward and he was looking down the short covered way, a way that was unnaturally dim as if the usual night-radiance bars there had been set at least two notches lower than was normal.
Troy’s stunner was in the bunk room. He was unarmed, and he had no intention of walking that courtyard without some form of defense. The door had no right to be open; the dimmed lights underlined that silent warning. He could well be facing a trap.
Now he unfastened the polished silver buckles of his belt. The strip of metal-encrusted leather was the only thing on him that could serve as a weapon. With one end grasped tightly in his fist, the length ready to use as a lash, he edged along the wall of the passage, listening to catch any sound from the courtyard beyond.
The mild complaints of the animals penned there could cover an attack. But from whom and for what purpose? Troy reached the end of the passage, flattened his body against the wall just inside the entrance, and surveyed the open. There was something wrong about the south side—
Then he pinpointed that difference. The door that led to Kyger’s private quarters, which he had never seen open, stood ajar now—painting an unfamiliar shadow across a section of pavement. And in the center of the yard stood a flitter. Whether it was the shop flyer he could not tell.
The open door and that waiting flyer were not all. There was an atmosphere of sharp expectancy about the whole scene—as if the stage awaited actors. Maybe the animals were sensitive to that also, for there were only the most subdued sounds from the pens. Again Troy smelled “trap” as if it were a tangible odor in the air. But somehow he could not believe it was set for him.
Kyger then? That fitted better. He had had hints of some personal difficulty—perhaps even a knife feud— engulfing the merchant. And there was the Clan’s concern with the ex-spacer, too. Troy Horan was very small fry indeed. This suggested an operation on a much more important scale.
Prudence dictated his getting across that courtyard, into his own bunk room, without any exploration—if he could make it unobserved by what might hide out there. And what about Zul? The little man had left with Kyger—but what if he had returned separately? The yardmen? From what he could see, there was no indication that there was any human anywhere in the store block.
A flicker of movement, not in the courtyard but on the top of one of the blocks of pens, drew Troy’s eyes. There was a second such. Something small, dark, fluidly supple, had crossed a patch of light, been followed by another such. Far too small to be Zul—animals loose from some cage? But why on the roof coming in? The shadows into which both had slipped were far too deep for his sight to penetrate, and the speed with which they had disappeared suggested they might already be far away from that point.
A gathering—why did he think of that? Troy measured the distance between him and the nearest cover. Then, with as much speed as he could muster, he made that leap, stood listening once more, his breath coming raspingly.
Another surge of shadow, drawn toward that half- open door of Kyger’s. This moving, not with the slinking glide of the patch on the roof, but in a quick, scuttling dash, again too hurried for Troy to see clearly. But he was sure it whipped about the edge of the door, went into the merchant’s private quarters.
Troy made his own advancing rush. Then he saw round balls of green turned up toward him from close to ground level, feral animal eyes. The belt swung in his hand, his reaction to being so startled. They were gone as another form went through the door.
His earlier alarm had been tinged with curiosity. Now there was another emotion feeding it. Just as those shadows had gone to the waiting door, so did he l have to follow. He crossed the last few feet and entered, somehow expecting an attack.
Here the sounds from the courtyard were muted. But there was that which was not a sound, rather a thrumming in the blood, a throb in the ears—less than audible sound, or more. He knew of whistles, animal and bird calls, that sounded notes beyond the human range of hearing. Yet he could feel this that he i could not hear, and it was an irritant, a disturbance ‘ that nourished fear. But he could not turn his back upon it.
Troy groped his way forward, for there was no night ray on. Then his foot touched a rising surface and he explored a stairway with his hands. Step by step he climbed, the thick substance of the footing soaking up any sound of his boots. The throb was beating more heavily through his body as he went.
The stairway ended. He stood listening—and knew that no longer was he alone, though no sound, not even that of a hurried breath, betrayed whoever, or whatever, shared that darkness with him.
Troy had no idea of the geography of the space in which he now was, and there could not be any open window slits, for the dark was complete. He kept stem rein on his imagination, which tended to people this place with shapes that crept and slunk toward the target—which was himself. On impulse he squatted on his heels, marked off a foot or so on the belt he held, and swung it from left to right at floor level. Sure of that much clear space, he inched on to try the same maneuver again.
How long he might have taken to make the trip across the hall Troy was never to know, for a sudden shaft of light speared dazzlingly from right to left some feet away. And as his eyes adjusted to that. Troy saw it issued from a panel door not quite closed.
He was in a hallway from which three such doors issued, all of them on his right. And it was the last one that showed the light. No sound—but he could not retreat now. Someone—or something—knew he was there, was waiting. And he had to face it.
On his feet again, Troy moved lightly and swiftly to that panel. His hand touched its surface—now he could look in, though he was not sure the man in that room could see him.
Kyger sat there, not in the enveloping embrace of an eazi-rest, but upright on a queer, backless, armless stool, his shoulders against the wall. And between his hands was a cylinder perhaps a foot in diameter, one end resting on the floor guarded by his firmly planted boots, its top slightly below his chin.
No man could sit that quietly, not if he was conscious. Yet Kyger’s eyes were open, staring—not at Troy as the other first supposed, but beyond and through him, as if the younger man had no existence. And that frozen stare moved Troy forward, made him push open the panel and step within.
Kyger did not stir. Troy, tongue running across suddenly dry lips, came on. It was an oddly bare room. There was Kyger on his stool, gripping his cylinder. There was a series of small polished cabinets, all closed and with plainly visible thumb locks, and that was all.
Troy spoke and then wished he had not as his words echoed hollowly. “Merchant Kyger—is there something wrong?”
Kyger continued to stare and Troy at last knew the truth—Kyger was a dead man. He whirled, seeking behind him the one who had put on the light—to see nothing save a wall on which there were patterned lines of red, black, and white laid down in a map’s design. A map of Tikil, he realized as he surveyed it, in which the open door panel had left a break in the eastern section.