Next stop—the Ceyce branch of the Bank of Maccadon. And it was lucky she’d done all her banking in Ceyce since she was a teen-ager, because she would have to present herself in person to draw out her savings. She’d better lose no time getting to the bank either. It was one place where theoretical searchers could expect her to show up.
She could pay for her ship reservation at the bank. Then to a store for some clothes and a suitcase for the trip . . .
And, finally, into some big middle-class hotel where she would stay quietly until a few hours before the ship was due to take off.
That seemed to cover it. It probably wasn’t foolproof. But trying to work out a foolproof plan would be a waste of time when she didn’t know just what she was up against. This should give her a running start, a long one.
When should she leave?
Right now, she decided. Commissioner Tate presumably would be informed that she had applied for a transfer and that the transfer had been denied. He knew her too well not to become very suspicious if it looked as if she were just sitting there and taking it.
She got her secretary on the ComWeb.
“I’m thinking of leaving the office,” she said. “Anything for me to take care of first?”
It was a safe question. She’d signed the day’s mail and checks before lunch.
“Not a thing, Miss Farn.”
“Fine,” said Ruya Farn. “If anyone wants me in the next three or four hours, I’ll be either down in the main library or out at the lake.”
And that would give somebody two rather extensive areas to look for her, if and when they started to look—along with the fact that, for all anyone knew, she might be anywhere between those two points.
A few minutes later, Trigger sauntered, humming blithely, into her room and gave it a brief survey. There were some personal odds and ends she would have liked to take with her, but she could send for them from Manon.
The Denton, however, was coming along. The little gun had a very precisely calibrated fast-acting stunner attachment, and old Runser Argee had instructed Trigger in its use with his customary thoroughness before he formally presented her with the gun. She had never had occasion to turn the stunner on a human being, but she’d used it on game. If this cloak and dagger business became too realistic, she’d already decided she would use it as needed.
She slipped the Denton into the side pocket of a lightweight rain robe, draped the robe over her arm, slung her purse beside it, picked up the sun hat and left the room.
The Colonial School’s kitchen area was on one of the underground levels. Unless they’d modified their guard system very considerably since Trigger had graduated, that was the route by which she would leave.
As far as she could tell they hadn’t modified anything. The whole kitchen level looked so unchanged that she had a moment of nostalgia. Groups of students went chattering along the hallways between the storerooms and the cooking and processing plants. The big mess hall, Trigger noticed in passing, smelled as good as it always had. Bells sounded the end of a period and a loudspeaker system began directing Class so and so to Room such and such. Standing around were a few uniformed guards—mainly for the purpose of helping out newcomers who had lost their direction.
She came out on the equally familiar big and brightly lit platform of the loading ramp. Some sixty or seventy great cylindrical vans floated alongside the platform, most of them disgorging their contents, some still sealed.
Trigger walked unhurriedly down the ramp, staying in the background, observing the movements of two ramp guards and marking four vans which were empty and looked ready to go.
The driver of the farthest of the four empties stood in the back of his vehicle, a few feet above the platform. When Trigger came level with him, he was studying her. He was a big young man with tousled black hair and a rough-and-ready look. He was grinning very faintly. He knew the ways of Colonial School students.
Trigger raised her left hand a few inches, three fingers up. His grin widened. He shook his head and raised both hands in a corresponding gesture. Eight fingers.
Trigger frowned at him, stopped and looked back along the row of vans. Then left hand up again—four fingers and thumb.
The driver made a circle with finger and thumb. A deal, for five Maccadon crowns. Which was about standard fare for unauthorized passage out of the school.
Trigger wandered on to the end of the platform, turned and came back, still unhurriedly but now close to the edge of the ramp. Down the line, another van slammed open in back and a stream of crates swooped out, riding a gravity beam from the roof toward a waiting storeroom carrier. The guard closest to Trigger turned to watch the process. Trigger took six quick steps and reached her driver.
He put down a hand to help her step up. She slipped the five-crown piece into his palm.
“Up front,” he whispered hoarsely. “Next to the driver’s seat and keep down. How far?”
“Nearest tube line.”
He grinned again and nodded. “Can do.”
Twenty minutes later Trigger was in a downtown ComWeb booth. There had been a minor modification in her plans and she’d stopped off in a store a few doors away and picked up a carefully nondescript street dress and a scarf. She changed into the dress now and bundled the school costume into a deposit box, which she dispatched to Central Deposit with a one-crown piece, getting a numbered slip in return. It had occurred to her that there was a chance otherwise of getting caught in a Colonial School roundup, if it was brought to Doctor Plemponi’s attention that there appeared to be considerably more students out on the town at the moment than could be properly overlooked.
Or even, Trigger thought, if somebody simply happened to have missed Trigger Argee.
She slipped the rain robe over her shoulders, dropped a coin into the ComWeb, and covered the silver-blonde hair with the scarf. The screen lit up. She asked for Grand Commerce Transportation.
Waiting, she realized suddenly that so far she was rather enjoying herself. There had been a little argument with the van driver who, it turned out, had ideas of his own about modifying Trigger’s plans—a complication she’d run into frequently in her school days too. As usual, it didn’t develop into a very serious argument. Truckers who dealt with the Colonial School knew, or learned in one or two briefly horrid lessons, that Mihul’s commando-trained charges were prone to ungirlish methods of discouragement when argued with too urgently.
The view screen switched on. The Transportation clerk’s glance flicked over Trigger’s street dress when she told him her destination. His expression remained bland. Yes, the Dawn City was leaving Ceyce Port for the Manon System tomorrow evening. Yes, it was subspace express—one of the newest and fastest, in fact. His eyes slipped over the dress again. Also one of the most luxurious, he might add. There would be only two three-hour stops in the Hub beyond Maccadon—one each off Evalee and Garth. Then a straight dive to Manon unless, of course, gravitic storm shifts forced the ship to surface temporarily. Average time for the Dawn City on the run was eleven days; the slowest trip so far had required sixteen.
“But unfortunately, madam, there are only a very few cabins left—and not very desirable ones, I’m afraid.” He looked apologetic. “There hasn’t been a vacancy on the Manon run for the past three months.”
“I can stand it, I imagine,” Trigger said. “How much for the cheapest?”
The clerk cleared his throat gently and told her.
She couldn’t help blinking, though she was braced for it. But it was more than she had counted on. A great deal more. It would leave her, in fact, with exactly one hundred and twenty-six crowns out of her entire savings, plus the coins she had in her purse.
“Any extras?” she asked, a little hoarsely.
He shrugged. “There’s Traveler’s Rest,” he said negligently. “Nine hundred for the three dive periods. But Rest is optional, of course. Some passengers prefer the experience of staying awake during a subspace dive.” He smiled—rather sadistically, Trigger felt—and added, “Till they’ve lived through one of them, that is.”
Trigger nodded. She’d lived through quite a few of them. She didn’t like subspace particularly—nobody did—but except for an occasional touch of nausea or dizziness at the beginning of a dive, it didn’t bother her much. Many people got hallucinations, went into states of panic or just got very sick. “Anything else?” she asked.
“Just the usual tips and things,” said the clerk. He looked surprised. “Do you—does madam wish to make the reservation?”