Not now. Other things kept running through her head. Money, for example. They hadn’t returned her own cash to her and apparently didn’t intend to—at least not until after the interview. But Mihul was carrying at least part of their spending money in a hip pocket wallet. The rest of it might be in a concealed room safe or deposited with the resort hotel’s cashier.
She glanced over at Mihul again. Good friend Mihul never before had looked quite so large, lithe, alert and generally fit for a rough-and-tumble. That un-incentive idea was fiendishly ingenious! It was difficult to plan things through clearly and calmly while one’s self-esteem kept quailing at vivid visualizations of the results of making a mistake.
The hopper settled down near the center of their territory, guided the last half mile by Mihul who had fancied the looks of some shrub-cluttered ravines ahead. Trigger opened the door on her side. The gun-pup leaped lightly across the seat and came out behind her. He turned to look over his huntresses and gave them a wag, a polite but perfunctory one. Then he stood waiting for orders.
Mihul considered him. “Guess he’s in charge here,” she said. She waved a hand at the pup. “Go find ’em, old boy! We’ll string along.”
He loped off swiftly, a lean brown hound-like creature, a Grand Commerce development of some aristocratic Terran breed and probably a considerable improvement on the best of his progenitors. He curved around a thick clump of shrubs like a low-flying hawk. Two plump feather-shapes, emerald-green and crimson, whirred up out of the near side of the shrubbery, saw the humans before them and rose steeply, picking up speed.
A great many separate, clearly detailed things seemed to be going on within the next four or five seconds. Mihul swore, scooping the Denton out of its holster. Trigger already had the Yool out, but the gun was unfamiliar; she hesitated. Fascinated, she glanced from the speeding, soaring feather-balls to Mihul, watched the tall woman straighten for an overhead shot, left hand grasping right wrist to steady the lightweight Denton—and in that particular instant Trigger knew exactly what was going to happen next.
The Denton flicked forth one bolt. Mihul stretched a little more for the next shot. Trigger wheeled matter-of-factly, dropping the Yool, left elbow close in to her side. Her left fist rammed solidly into Mihul’s bare brown midriff, just under the arch of the rib cage.
That punch, in those precise circumstances, would have paralyzed the average person. It didn’t quite paralyze Mihul. She dropped forward, doubled up and struggling for breath, but already twisting around toward Trigger. Trigger stepped across her, picked up the Denton, shifted its setting, thumbed it to twelve-hour stunner max, and let Mihul have it between the shoulder blades.
Mihul jerked forward and went limp.
Trigger stood there, shaking violently, looking down at Mihul and fighting the irrational conviction that she had just committed cold-blooded murder.
The gun-pup trotted up with the one downed bird. He placed it reverently by Mihul’s outflung hand. Then he sat back on his haunches and regarded Trigger with something of the detached compassion of a good undertaker.
Apparently this wasn’t his first experience with a hunting casualty.
The story Trigger babbled into the hopper’s communicator a minute later was that Drura Lod had succumbed to an attack of Dykart fever coma—and that an ambulance and a fast flit to a hospital in the nearest city were indicated.
The preserve hotel was startled but reassuring. That the mother should be afflicted with the same ailment as the daughter was news to them but plausible enough. Within eight minutes, a police ambulance was flying Mihul and Trigger at emergency speeds towards a small Uplands city behind the mountains.
Trigger never found out the city’s name. Three minutes after she’d followed Mihul’s floating stretcher into the hospital, she quietly left the building again by a street entrance. Mihul’s wallet had contained two hundred and thirteen crowns. It was enough, barely.
She got a complete change of clothes in the first Automatic Service store she came to and left the store in them, carrying the sporting outfit in a bag. The aircab she hired to take her to Ceyce had to be paid for in advance, which left her eighty-two crowns. As they went flying over a lake a while later, the bag with the sporting clothes and accessories was dumped out of the cab’s rear window. It was just possible that the Space Scouts had been able to put that tracer material idea to immediate use.
In Ceyce a short two hours after she’d felled Mihul, Trigger called the interstellar spaceport and learned that the Dawn City was open to passengers and their guests.
Birna Drellgannoth picked up her tickets and went on board, mingling unostentatiously with a group in a mood of festive leave-taking. She went fading even more unostentatiously down a hallway when the group stopped cheerfully to pose for a solidopic girl from one of the news agencies. She located her cabin after a lengthy search, set the door to don’t-disturb, glanced around the cabin and decided to inspect it in more detail later.
She pulled off her slippers, climbed on the outsized overstuffed divan which passed here for a bunk, and stretched out.
She lay there a while, blinking at the ceiling and worrying a little about Mihul. Even theoretically a stunner-max blast couldn’t cause Mihul the slightest permanent damage. It might, however, leave her in a fairly peevish mood after the grogginess wore off, since the impact wasn’t supposed to be pleasant. But Mihul had stated she would hold no grudges over a successful escape attempt; and even if they caught up with her again before she got to Manon, this attempt certainly had to be rated a technical success.
They might catch up, of course, Trigger thought. The Federation must have an enormous variety of means at its disposal when it set out seriously to locate one of its missing citizens. But the Dawn City would be some hours on its way before Mihul even began to think coherently again. She’d spread the alarm then, but it should be a while before they started to suspect Trigger had left the planet. Maccadon was her home world, after all. If she’d just wanted to hole up, that was where she would have had the best chance to do it successfully.
Evalee, the first Hub stop, was only nine hours’ flight away; Garth lay less than five hours beyond Evalee. After that there was only the long subspace run to Manon . . .
They’d have to work very fast to keep her from leaving the Hub this time!
Trigger glanced over at the Denton lying by the bedside ComWeb on a little table at the head of the divan-thing. She was aware of a feeling of great contentment, of growing relaxation. She closed her eyes.
By and large, she thought—all things considered—she hadn’t come off badly among the cloak and dagger experts! She was on her way to Manon.
Some hours later she slept through the Dawn City’s thunderous take-off.
When she woke up next she was in semi-darkness. But she knew where she was and a familiar feeling of low-weight told her the ship was in flight. She sat up.
At her motion, the area about her brightened, and the cabin grew visible again. It was rather large, oval-shaped. There were three closed doors in the walls, and the walls themselves were light amber, of oddly insubstantial appearance. A rosy tinge was flowing up from the floor level through them, and as the color surged higher and deepened, there came an accompanying stir of far-off, barely audible music. The don’t-disturb sign still reflected dimly from the interior panels of the passage door. Trigger found its control switch on the bedstand and shut it off.
At once a soft chiming sounded from the miniature ComWeb on the bedstand. Its screen filled with a pulsing glow, and there was a voice.
“This is a recording, Miss Drellgannoth,” the voice told her. “If Room Service may intrude with an audio message, please be so good as to touch the blue circle at the base of your ComWeb.”
Trigger touched the blue circle. “Go ahead,” she invited.
“Thank you, Miss Drellgannoth,” said the voice. “For the duration of the voyage your personal ComWeb will be opened to callers, for either audio or visual intrusion, only by your verbal permission or by your touch on the blue circle.”
It stopped. Another voice picked up. “This is your Personal Room Stewardess, Miss Drellgannoth. Forgive the intrusion, but the ship will dive in one hour. Do you wish to have a rest cubicle prepared?”
“No, thanks,” Trigger said. “I’ll stay awake.”
“Thank you, Miss Drellgannoth. As a formality and in accordance with Federation regulations, allow me to remind you that Federation Law does not permit the bearing of personal weapons by passengers during a dive.”