“Of course not,” Quillan said. He thought a moment. “You, Belchy?” he asked.
Pluly looked alarmed. “No! No! No!” he said hastily. He blinked wildly. “I’ll stick to the shipping business. It’s safer.”
Quillan patted him fondly on the shoulder. “That’s one law-abiding citizen in this group!” He winked at Trigger. “Trigger’s wondering,” he told Lyad, “why she and I are being told these things.”
“Well, obviously,” Lyad said, “Trigger and you are in an excellent position—or will be, very soon—to act as middlemen in the matter.”
“Wha . . .” Trigger began, astounded. Then, as all eyes swiveled over to her, she checked herself. “Did you really think,” she asked Lyad, “that we’d agree to such a thing?”
“Certainly not,” said Lyad. “I don’t expect anyone to agree to anything tonight—though it’s a safe assumption I’m not the only one here who has made sure this conversation is not being recorded, and will not be available for reconstruction. Well, Quillan?” She smiled.
“How right you are, First Lady!” Quillan said. He tapped a breast pocket. “Scrambler and distorter present and in action.”
“And you, Balmordan?”
“I must admit,” Balmordan said pleasantly, “that I thought it wise to take certain precautions.”
“Very wise!” said Lyad. Her glance shifted, with some amusement in it, to Pluly. “Belchik?”
“You’re a nerve-wracking woman, Lyad,” Belchik said unhappily. “Yes. I’m scrambling, of course.” He shuddered. “I can’t afford to take chances. Not when you’re around.”
“Of course not, and even so,” said Lyad, “there are still reasons why an unconsidered word might be embarrassing in this company. So, no, Trigger, I’m not expecting anybody to agree to anything tonight. I’m merely mentioning that I’m interested in the purchase of plasmoids. Incidentally, I’d be very much more interested even in seeing you, and Quillan, enter my employ directly. Yes, Belchik?”
Pluly had begun giggling wildly.
“I was—ha-ha—having the same idea!” he gasped. “About one of—ha-ha—of ’em anyway! I—”
He jerked and came to an abrupt stop, transfixed by Trigger’s stare. Then he reached for his glass, blinking at top speed. “Excuse me,” he muttered.
“Hardly, Belchik!” said Lyad. She gave Trigger a small wink. “But I can assure you, Trigger Argee, that you’d find my pay and working conditions very attractive indeed.”
It seemed a good moment to look inscrutable. Trigger did.
“Serious about that, Lyad?” asked Quillan.
The Ermetyne said, “Certainly I’m serious. Both of you could be of great value to me at present.” She looked at him a moment. “Did you ever happen to tell Trigger about the manner in which you re-established the family fortune?”
“Not in any great detail,” Quillan said.
“A very good hijacker and smuggler went to waste when you signed up with the Engineers,” Lyad said. “But perhaps not entirely to waste.”
“Perhaps not,” acknowledged Quillan. He grinned. “But I’m a modest man. One fortune’s enough for me.”
“There was a time, you know,” Lyad said, “when I was rather afraid it would be necessary to have you killed.”
Quillan laughed. “There was a time,” he admitted, “when I suspected you might be thinking along those lines, First Lady! Didn’t lose too much, did you?”
“I lost enough!” Lyad said. She wrinkled her nose at him. “But that’s all over and done with. And now—no more business tonight. I promise.” She turned her head a little. “Flam!” she called.
“Yes, First Lady?” said the voice of the redheaded girl.
“Bring us Miss Argee’s property, please.”
Flam brought in a small package of flat disks taped together. Lyad took them.
“Sometimes,” she told Quillan, “the Askab becomes a little independent. He’s been spoken to. Here—you keep them for Trigger.”
She tossed the package lightly over to them. Quillan put out a hand and caught it.
“Thanks,” he said. He put the package in a pocket. “I’ll call off my beagles.”
“Suit yourself as to that,” said the Ermetyne. “It won’t hurt the Askab to stay frightened a little longer.”
She checked herself. The room’s ComWeb was signaling. Virod went over to it. A voice came through.
” . . . The Garth-Manon subspace run begins in one hour. Rest cubicles have been prepared . . .”
“That means me,” Belchik Pluly said. He climbed hastily to his feet. “Can’t stand dives! Get hallucinations. Nasty ones.” He staggered a little then, and Trigger realized for the first time that Belchy had got pretty thoroughly drunk.
“Better give our guest a hand, Virod,” Lyad called over her shoulder. “Happy dreams, Belchik! Are you going by Rest, Trigger? No? You’re not, of course, Quillan. Balmordan?”
The Devagas scientist also shook his head.
“Then by all means,” Lyad said, “let’s stay together a little while longer.”
15
“She,” said Trigger, “is a remarkable woman.”
“Yeah,” said Quillan. “Remarkable.”
“May I ask you, finally, a few pertinent questions?” Trigger inquired humbly.
“Not here, sweet stuff,” said Quillan.
“You’re a bossy sort of slob, Heslet Quillan,” she said equably.
Quillan didn’t answer. They had come down the stairway to the storerooms level and were walking along the big lit hallway toward their cabins. Trigger felt pleasantly relaxed. But she did have a great many pertinent questions to ask Quillan now, and she wanted to get started on them.
“Oh!” she said suddenly. Just as suddenly, Quillan’s hand was on her shoulder, moving her along.
“Hush now,” he said. “And keep walking.”
“But you saw it, didn’t you?” Trigger asked, trying to look back to the small open door into the storerooms they’d just passed.
Quillan sighed. “Certainly,” be said. “Guy in space armor.”
“But what’s he doing there?”
“Checking something, I suppose.” His hand left her shoulder; and, for just a moment, his finger rested lightly across her lips. Trigger glanced up at him. He was walking on beside her, not looking at her.
All right, she thought—she could take a hint. But she felt tense and uncomfortable now. Something was going on again, apparently.
They turned into the side passage and came up to her cabin. Trigger started to turn to face him, and Quillan picked her up and went on without a noticeable break in his stride. Close to her ear, his voice whispered, “Explain in a moment! Dangerous here.”
As the door to the end cabin closed behind them, he put her back on her feet. He looked at his watch.
“We can talk here,” he said. “But there may not be much time for conversation.” He gestured toward a table against the wall. “Take a look at the setup.”
Trigger looked. The table was littered with instruments, like an electronic workbench. A visual screen showed a view of both her own cabin and a section of the passage outside it, up to the point where it entered the big hall.
“What is it?” she asked uncertainly.
“Essentially,” said Quillan, “we’ve set up a catassin trap.”
“Catassin!” Trigger squeaked.
“That’s right. Don’t get too nervous though. I’ve caught them before. Used to be a sort of specialty of mine. And there’s one thing about them—they’ll blab their pointed little heads off if you can get one alive and promise it its catnip . . .” He’d shucked off his jacket and taken out of it a very large handgun with a bell-shaped mouth. He laid the gun down next to the view screen. “In case,” he said, unreassuringly. “Now just a moment.”
He sat down in front of the view screen and did something to it.
“All right,” he said then. “We’re here and set. Probability period starts in three minutes, continues for sixty. Signal on any blip. Otherwise no gabbing. And remember they’re fast. Don’t get sappy.”
There was no answer. Quillan did something else to the screen and stood up again. He looked broodingly at Trigger. “It’s those damn computers again!” he said. “I don’t see any sense in it.”
“In what?” she asked shakily.
“Everything that’s happening around here is being fed back to them at the moment,” he said. “When they heard about our invite to Lyad’s dinner party, and who was to be present, they came up with a honey. In the time period I mentioned a catassin is supposed to show up at your cabin. They give it a pretty high probability.”
Trigger didn’t say anything. If she had, she probably would have squeaked again.
“Now don’t worry,” he said, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly between a large thumb and four slightly less large fingers. “Nice muscle!” he said absently. “The cabin’s trapped and I’ve taken other precautions.” He massaged the muscle gently. “Probably the only thing that will happen is that we’ll sit around here for an hour or so, and then we’ll have a hearty laugh together at those foolish computers!” He smiled.
“I thought,” Trigger said without squeaking, “that everybody was pretty sure it was dead.”
Quillan frowned. “Well, that’s something else again! There are at least two ways I know of to sneak it past that search. Jump it out and in with a subtub is one—they could have done that from their own cabin as soon as they had its pattern. So I don’t really think it’s dead. It’s just—”