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is Fait Linler of
Stemmons arriving with due prior notification. E.T.A. two hours. Please ack."
The acknowledgment was slow in coming. Renson was beginning to frown uneasily
before the response rang in his right ear:
"Linler of Stemmons, this is Nexal Arrivals. Maintain inertia. You will be
escorted down."
"Escorted?"
Renson demanded, surprised. "I really don't see the necessity of "
"Maintain inertia!" the voice interrupted. "Nexal Arrivals out!"
"But . . ."
He did not complete his protest. This business of an escort had to mean that,
for some reason, the
Lontastans were suspicious. Had he given himself away with a false move?
He was technically speaking an enemy here, even though he had no intention of
causing, or seeking, trouble. However, if trouble waited, his best bet was to
warp out while he had the opportunity.
He went semi-inert, preparatory to setting a warp vector, then was stopped by
a thought.
Why had Arrivals Control told him he would be escorted? Why hadn't the escort
simply arrived and surrounded him? Was he being baited into a guilt-revealing
action? What should . . .
The hesitation probably save his life. Zerburst terminals flared suddenly in
scorching brilliance on every side, bottling him at a distance of only
hundreds of miles in an almost unbroken shell of death. As it was, his
skin-field went total reflect to block out the fierce radiation. If he had
tried to vector in any direction, one of those terminals would almost
certainly have caught him.
A harsh voice barked in his ear: "Fait Linler! Go inert and STAY inert!"
Renson obeyed.
Within seconds the escort of Nexali Guardsmen closed in on him. He watched
expressionlessly as they spiraled around. They were a tough-looking
squad doubtless barbarian types of the sort usually found performing such
duties. With their zerburst guns held in readiness, their black shorts and
their overpolished boots, they looked very military and very murderous.
In short, a goon squad one of the uglier features of the endless
Primgranese-Lontastan war. As long as human society had a use for such barbs
as these, Renson mused grimly, their genetic strain would remain intact.
"Take off your belt and throw it! ordered the harsh-voiced Guard officer who
had spoken before.
"
Renson did so, not bothering to protest that his belt contained no weapons. A
Guardsman snagged the
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belt as it drifted away and examined it cautiously.
Then Renson's sight was cut off. The escort had thrown a blindfield around
him. He would see nothing during the rest of his journey to Nexal.
Time passed. When they entered the lower atmosphere he knew of it only from
the relaxation of his pressor field and from the change of his breathing mode.
The sensors of his life-support system, having detected suitable air around
him, automatically deactivated the gas-conversion macromolecules in the
linings of his throat and nasal passages, and he went on external respiration.
What sounds filtered through the blindfield were muffled and uninformative.
When the field lifted Renson saw he was in a small windowless room. He had
been left carrying sufficient momentum to slam him backwards into a chair, in
which he was immediately confined by a restrainer belt across his stomach.
After a dazed instant he saw the escort was gone. Only one other man was in
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the room, facing him across a desk.
"I'm Arkay Delton of Anti-Espionage," the man informed him mildly. "Who are
you?"
"I'm Fait Linler, from Stemmons," replied Renson. "Look, what's all this
about?"
Delton's eyes had lowered to something Renson could not see on the desktop.
Now he looked up and repeated, "Who are you?"
Renson blinked. Obviously Delton had an emo-monitor focused on him, and his
use of a false name had registered; else Delton would not have repeated the
question. Renson had lived with his assumed name, Fait Linler, for five years,
and had hoped that, if he were ever emo-monitored, it would register clean.
Plainly, it had not.
I
AM
Fait Linler, he assured himself. That's my real identity. Grap Renson is no
longer real. I accept that as true without reservation.
But in reply to Delton's question he said, "Nobody you need concern yourself
about. I'm not a spy, nor an enemy."
Delton glanced up and said, "Thank you," which probably meant the answer
registered clean. "Who are you?"
Annoyed, Renson replied, "Fait Linler."
"Who are you?"
"Fait Linler, of Stemmons."
"Who are you?"
Renson consciously relaxed himself. This interrogation setup a mild,
friendly-faced man repeating a question at him from across a desk had a strong
and intentional resemblance to a psych-release therapy session. Psych-release
was a major landmark in the life of every child, opening the way to a sane
adulthood.
Thus, the temptation was to regard Delton as a therapist and cooperate fully.
Renson wriggled under the restrainer belt into a more erect position. "Fait
Linler," he said.
"Who are you?"
"Look, I told you I'm nobody of concern to you! I'm not a participant in the
econo-war at all! In fact, my sole purpose for coming to Nexal is to try to
discover why this nonsensical war exists in the first place!"
Delton considered this outburst a moment before saying, "Thank you. Who are
you?"
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"Fait Linler!"
"Who are you?"
"Fait Linler."
"Who are you?"
The repetition of question and answer went on for half an hour . . . and
Renson was beginning to think it could continue forever. Delton would tire,
and be replaced by another interrogator, who would tire and be replaced by
It was futile to go on.
"Who are you?"
Renson sighed. "I've been Fait Linler for five years. Who I was before that
isn't important."
Delton smiled. "Thank you. Who were you six years ago?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Who were you six years ago?"
After a pause Renson shrugged. "I was Grap Renson, an engineer with Sol-Veg
Systems Corporation in the Commonality of Primgran."
"Thank you, Mr. Renson. What grade engineer?"
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"Junior first."
Delton looked impressed. "And you're not here as a spy or a saboteur, or
otherwise as an agent of the
Commonality or of a Commonality enterprise?"
"No."
"But you are not here as a defector, either?"
"That's correct," Renson said stiffly.
"Thank you." Delton shifted slightly in his seat for the first time. "After
your long trip from Stemmons you're probably ready for some bulk food."
Renson nodded.
A tray slid out of the wall to pose a breakfast over his lap. He dug in with
good appetite. During warpflight it was necessary to subsist on
food-concentrate pills, with a stomach-balloon countering the empty sensation
the pills left. This prevented severe pangs, but the human body had other
means of recognizing hunger. And that, Renson realized as he grew more
comfortable, was one reason why he had found the idea of a prolonged
interrogation so hard to face.
He looked up between mouthfuls. "What alerted your security to me?" he asked.
Delton shrugged and grinned. "Several things. It seemed likely, when I first
read the query on you from
Arrivals Control, that you were either a rank amateur at infiltration, or that
some Primgranese spy-boss was taking a shot in the dark with an utterly naive
approach." He chuckled, "It was foolish of you to expect that a mere five-year
record of residence on a low-security planet like Stemmons where nothing of
economic significance is going on would lead to your unquestioned acceptance
as a first-class
Lontastan citizen. Notification of arrivals on Nexal are always checked out,
and yours was obviously fishy."
Annoyed, Renson snapped, "O.K., so infiltration isn't my line!"
"That's for sure," laughed Delton, studying the captive thoughtfully. "So you
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