The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

“Just do as I say.”

Frigate shrugged, and he tried to grin. “It’s evident you two are doing a lot more than just concealing your true identities. All right. I’ll go. But you wouldn’t kill me, would you?”

“That depends,” Rider said.

They walked down the hill and across the plain. At the dock the only crew member present was Nur, who was talking to a woman. Rider said, “Not a word, Pete. And smile.”

Frigate, looking straight at the little Moor, grimaced. He hoped that Nur would detect that something was wrong-he was so sensi­tive to expressions-but Nur only waved at them. When they were in the captain’s cabin, Frisco shut the door and made Frigate sit on the edge of the bunk.

Frigate said, “I’ve been with you twenty-six years. Twenty-six! And I’ve never told anybody what your real names were.”

Farrington sat down in the chair at his desk. Toying with his knife, he said, “That seems against human nature. How could you keep your mouth shut that long? And why?”

“Especially why?” Rider said. He stood near the door, a horn-fish stiletto in his hand.

“It was evident that you didn’t want it known, for one thing. So, being your friend, I didn’t say anything. Though I will admit I wondered why you were so secretive.”

Farrington looked at Rider. “What do you think, Tom?”

Rider shrugged, and said, “We made a mistake. We should have just laughed it off. Admitted who we are and made up some tall tale to account for it.”

Farrington put the knife down and lit a cigarette.

“Yeah. That’s hindsight. What’ll we do now?”

Rider said, “After all this mysterious folderol, Pete must know we got something to hide.”

“He already said that.”

Rider sheathed the stiletto and lit a cigarette. Frigate wondered if he should make a break for it now. His chances for success were small. Though both men were smaller, they were very strong and quick. Besides, trying to escape would make him look guilty.

Guilty of what?

Tom said, “That’s better. Forget about getting away. Relax.”

“With you two thinking of murder?”

Rider laughed and said, “After all these years you ought to know we can’t kill in cold blood. Even a stranger, and we’re sort of fond of you, Pete.”

“Well, if I were what you think I am, whatever that is, what would you do?”

“Work up a passion so I wouldn’t have to kill you in cold blood, I reckon.”

“Why?”

“If you aren’t really Peter Frigate, then you know.”

“Who in hell else could I be?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Farrington ground out his cigarette in an ashtray clamped to the desk.

‘ “The thing is, Tom,” he said, “he has been with us longer man any of our wives. If he was one of Them, why would he stay around so long? Especially since he claims he recognized us the day he met us.

“We would have been scooped up that night, if he’s one of Them.”

“Maybe,” Tom said. “We don’t know more than one-quarter of what’s going on. One-eightieth, maybe. And what we do know may be a lie. Maybe we’ve been played for suckers.”

“Them? Scooped up?” Frigate said.

Martin Farrington looked at Tom, and he said, “What’ll we do now? There isn’t any way of identifying Them. We’re fools, Tom. We should’ve just told him a big lie. Now we got to go all the way.”

“If he’s one of Them, then he already knows,” Rider.said. “So we wouldn’t be telling him much he doesn’t know. Except about the Ethical. And if he is an agent, then he wouldn’t have been put on our trail unless They suspected we’d been contacted by Him.”

“Yeah, we jumped the gun. And there isn’t any gun in the first place. You know, if Pete’s an agent, why would he have suggested the blimp? Would an agent want us to get to the tower?”

“That’s right. Unless …”

“Don’t keep me hanging.”

“Unless there’s something haywire, and he’s as much in the dark now as we are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen, Tom, lately I’ve been doing a lot of thinking when I should’ve been sleeping or screwing. I’ve been thinking that there’s something mysterious going on. I don’t mean what the Ethical told us. I mean this business of there suddenly being no more resurrec­tions.