The Planet Killers Page 11

  “As soon as we landed on Skorg,” she said. “He—seemed to change. To grow cold, and hard, and self-confident. Before he seemed, well, almost shy. But all that left him. He started boasting to me.”

  “About what?”

  “About how important he was in the hypnojewel racket, and how rich he was going to get. He told me all this as if he expected me to applaud him.”

  “Just what does he do to be so important?”

  “He’s—a courier. He helps distribute the hypnojewels.”

  Catton’s eyes gleamed. “Did you ever learn where the jewels come from in the first place?”

  She shook her head. “N-no. He kept that part very mysterious. I never found out.”

  Catton frowned; he had hoped Estil could give him that vital bit of information. “Will you tell me where Doveril is now?”

  “He’s on a planet named Vyorn,” the girl said.

  Catton had heard of Vyorn only several times; it was a remote world, hundreds of thousands of light-years from the central lens of the galaxy. And it was not an oxygen-breathing world; as he recalled, it had a chlorine atmosphere. The inhabitants were completely non-humanoid and had little dealing with that vast majority of peoples that breathed oxygen.

  Catton grasped her arm. “Is that where the hypnojewels come from?”

  “No.” She dropped her eyes. “On Vyorn they make matter duplicators. Doveril went there to buy some.”

  “ What ?”

  “I know. It sounds horrible. But one day there was a call from Morilar—from Pouin Beryaal. I listened in, but Doveril didn’t know it. And Beryaal told Doveril to leave for Vyorn immediately, to arrange for the shipment of matter duplicators. I don’t know what Beryaal is planning to do with a cargo of duplicators, but—”

  “I know,” Catton said darkly. “He’s planning to dump them on Earth.”

  “No!”

  “Beryaal’s behind a plot to smash Earth before it gets too powerful in the galactic scheme of things. The way to do it is to drop matter duplicators.” Catton’s head was beginning to ache. Beryaal was like an octopus, with tentacles wandering everywhere. He ran the Crime Commission, he schemed to shatter Terran civilization, he employed Nuuri Gryain to spy on Catton, he employed Doveril Halligon to obtain the matter duplicators for him, not seeming to care that Doveril was also involved in an illegal traffic which Beryaal was supposedly trying to stamp out. Or was Beryaal bound up in the hypnojewel business too? It would hardly be surprising.

  And Nuuri had tried to betray Doveril. Either the right hand knew not what the left was doing, or else the entire incident had been another scheme within a scheme. Catton tried to puzzle out the whole complex plan, without success.

  “You look so troubled,” Estil said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. But the puzzle keeps getting more complicated every day.” Catton shook his head. “How long ago did Doveril go to Vyorn?”

  “Four weeks ago.”

  Four weeks, Catton thought. He did not remember how long it took to reach Vyorn by nullspace drive, but it was certainly several weeks. So Doveril had just arrived there. Catton realized he would have to follow him.

  He rose. “It’s getting late, Estil. I shouldn’t be in a young lady’s hotel room at this hour without a chaperone.”

  She reddened. “I don’t have much reputation left to lose,” she said softly.

  “If that’s a proposition, consider it refused,” Catton said, laughing. “I’d never be able to look your father in the eye again.”

  He walked toward the door. She followed him—a tired little girl who had grown up too fast, still wearing the tight, low-cut dress that was her costume as a restaurant performer.

  “Are you going to go to Vyorn?” she asked.

  “Maybe. I’ll see you again before I leave Skorg, in any event. Good night, Estil.”

  “Good night.”

  The next morning, Catton paid a visit to the travel agency office in the lobby of his hotel. The agent at the desk was a female Skorg of forbidding height, who flashed a professional smile at him—a neat touch, since Skorgs used a hand gesture rather than a mouth gesture to indicate amiability, and it showed her familiarity with Terran customs of courtesy.

  He said, “I want to book passage for Vyorn on the next ship.”

  She looked a little surprised. “I’m sorry, sir. There is no through service from Skorg to any planets in the Vyorn region.”

  “You aren’t going to tell me that I simply can’t get there from here, are you?”

  The old Terran joke was lost completely on her. She smiled again, gravely, and said, “Oh, certainly not, sir. I merely said that there was no direct route from Skorg to Vyorn, but that should not be taken to mean that no link exists between those worlds.”

  “I see,” Catton said, choking back a grin. “Would you work out a route for me, then?”

  She began thumbing through books, consulting timetables, examining maps. Finally she said, “There is a way, sir. But it is a complex one. You would have to take a liner to Tharrimar—a ten-day trip. There you would make connections with a ship bound for Dirlak, and at Dirlak you would get the passenger ship to Hennim, which is the closest world to Vyorn in its own solar system. A shuttle runs from Hennim to Vyorn.”

  “And how long will all this take?”

  She jotted down figures. “Ten days from Skorg to Tharrimar … then a two-day stopover waiting for the Dirlak trip … five days more to Dirlak … a one-day wait until the ship for Hennim leaves … three days from Dirlak to Hennim … one more day for the Hennim-Vyorn shuttle. A total of twenty-two days from departure to arrival. Will that be acceptable?”

  Catton told her that it was, and she arranged a round trip for him which allowed him five days on Vyorn. He would depart from Skorg on the Tharrimar bound ship in three days; the agent subradioed ahead to reserve accommodations for him at the various stopover points, and within an hour the packet of tickets and reservations was completed. The cost of the trip was three thousand normits, or twenty-seven hundred thrones in Morilaru currency. He paid out of the funds he had drawn from the local office of the Interworld Commission on Crime.

  The arrangements complete, Catton headed across the hotel lobby to the dining room, for lunch. A Skorg bellhop neatly stepped in front of him and said, “Are you the Earthman, Catton?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A woman from Morilar wishes to see you. She’s waiting in the front of the lobby.”

  Frowning. Catton gave the boy a coin and went forward. A woman from Morilar? Who—

  It was Nuuri Gryain.

  She was sitting in the lounge chair nearest the lobby door. As he came into view she rose and walked toward him.

  “Hello, Catton. I figured I’d find you here.”

  “Nuuri—what—how come you’re on Skorg?”

  She shrugged. “I took a little trip. There was a reward for the bit of informing I did, and I put my money into a round trip ticket to Skorg. But I’m hungry and thirsty now. Have you eaten?”

  “No,” Catton said. “I was just about to.”

  He escorted her toward the hotel dining room. They found an empty table for two.

  Catton said, “How did you know I was here?”

  “I knew you were on Skorg because it was splashed all over the news-sheets that you’d survived the Silver Spear explosion, had been rescued from a jungle world after weeks and weeks, and had come to Skorg. So I called a few hotels when I landed in Skorgaar, starting at the most expensive and working down. You were registered at the third one I called.”

  Catton smiled politely at her, but behind the smile was a more cautious expression. He did not know how far to trust the Morilaru girl. He still suspected that she betrayed him to Pouin Beryaal. And a girl who lived on the other side of the river in Dyelleran did not waste her money on pleasure jaunts to Skorg. There had to be a deeper motive for her trip.

  A waiter hovered b
ehind his shoulder. Nuuri said, “Order some wine first, yes?”

  “All right. Get us a bottle of something good, waiter. Make it a six-normit bottle.”

  The waiter bowed low and glided away. A few moments later the wine steward appeared with a faceted green bottle. The sommelier showed the label to Catton for approval. It was in a language he did not know. “Where’s it from?” he asked.

  “Jammir,” said the wine steward with faint supercilious undertones. “One of our finest light wines.”

  “Very well,” Catton said. “We’ll try it.”

  Following the ancient custom of his trade, the sommelier unstoppered the decanter, poured a bit of wine into Catton’s glass, and waited for a verdict. Catton tasted it. The wine was dry, with a curious flavor of fresh wood smoking over a fire. He liked it. He nodded to the wine steward, who poured out a glass for each of them and restoppered the decanter.

  Catton reached for his glass; at the same moment Nuuri, going for hers, knocked her purse to the floor. Automatically Catton bent and scooped it up. Then, cautiously, he thought of glancing at his wineglass. The clear surface of the wine seemed momentarily roiled and clouded; after an instant it returned to its transparent state.

  Catton nodded. It was all very neat, very slick, he thought. The accidental knocking-over of the purse, giving her a moment to drop something in his wine while he bent.

  “On Earth,” he said in a quiet voice, “it’s traditional that when a man and woman dine together, they exchange their wine glasses before drinking. The tradition goes back to the dim past of Terran civilization—it’s a symbol of the trust that a man and a woman should have when they share food.”

  Nuuri’s eyes glimmered uneasily. “I don’t think it’s a very sensible custom.”

  “But it’s a touching one. Let me have your glass, Nuuri, and you take mine.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Catton. Earthman customs don’t interest me. Drink your wine.”

  “Please. It’s a particular custom of mine.”

  “I didn’t notice you asking me for my glass when we drank together at the Five Planets,” she said.

  “We didn’t eat afterward,” Catton improvised.

  “Drink your wine and don’t trouble me with your Earthman customs.” She raised her glass to her lips. Catton reached across the table, caught her slender wrist between his thumb and middle finger, and forced her hand back to the table. She let go of the wineglass. He did not release his grip on her wrist.

  “What’s the matter, Nuuri? Are you afraid to drink my wine?”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “Answer me. Are you afraid to drink my wine ?”

  “Of course not. Do you take me for a poisoner? Let go of my arm. I don’t intend to sit here and let you accuse me of—”

  “You don’t think I’ll let you storm out of here and escape, do you? Drink the wine. And don’t try to spill the drink intentionally.” He dug his middle finger into the network of blood vessels that lay just below the skin of her wrist. She gasped involuntarily as the pressure tightened.

  “Let go. You’re hurting me.”

  “Tell me why you won’t drink my wine, Nuuri.”

  “You’re making a scene. I could have the waiter throw you out.”

  He dug his finger deeper into her wrist. Her fingers were quivering from the pain. “Don’t try to raise your voice, Nuuri, or I’ll break your wrist,” he warned in a level voice. “You put something in my drink while I bent over to pick up your purse.”

  “No! It isn’t so!”

  “It must be so. Otherwise you wouldn’t have made a fuss about exchanging the drinks.”

  He tightened his grip. His own fingers were beginning to hurt from the constant pressure; her arm, he thought, was probably numb to the elbow by now. But still he intensified his grasp. She bit her lips to keep from crying out.

  “Please … let go of me.”

  “I want an answer. You came here to poison me, didn’t you? Tell me the truth! Isn’t that why you’re here? Who sent you?”

  “Please.” Her voice was a strangled whisper. “My wrist—you’re crushing it—”

  From a distance, in the crowded dining room, they gave the appearance of an affectionate mixed couple, the man leaning forward and holding the woman’s arm. Closer, the picture was different. Catton forced his fingers to contact even further.

  “All right,” Nuuri gasped finally. “Pouin Beryaal sent me. He was furious when he heard you had survived the ship explosion. He sent me to Skorg to kill you!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Catton casually knocked the glass of poisoned wine to the floor. A moment later Skorg attendants came bustling up to mop the parquet, remove the broken glass, and to assure Catton that they were terribly sorry about the accident.

  He and Nuuri finished the meal in silence, Catton never taking his eyes off her. After he signed the check he said quietly, “Okay. Let’s go up to my room. We can talk there.”

  They rode up in the gravshaft together. Catton let her into the room first, locked the door, and said, “Give me your purse.” He took it from her and tossed it into the closet, which opened only to the thumbprint of the room’s occupant. “You can have it back when you leave,” he told her. “I’m not taking any chances with whatever artillery you might have in there.”

  “How do you know I’m not concealing a blaster in my clothes?”

  “I don’t. Suppose you strip and let me search them.”

  She glared at him, more in annoyance than in outrage; Morilaru did not feel modesty about displaying their bodies. She peeled her clothes off sullenly. Her body was like that of the two Morilaru women he had been marooned with: lean, practically without fatty deposits anywhere. He examined her clothing, found no concealed weapons, and told her to dress.

  “Are you satisfied?” she asked him.

  “Satisfied that there’s no way you can kill me right this moment, anyway.” He sat down facing her. On Skorg there was no prohibition about non-residents carrying weapons, and he was armed with a small blaster in case she tried anything violent. “So you’re working for Pouin Beryaal,” he said reflectively. “And he sent you here to kill me, eh?”

  She did not speak.

  Catton said, “I suppose you were the one who told Beryaal that my real motive for coming to the outworlds had nothing to do with hypnojewels, too. You told him I was investigating the plot against Earth. And he saw to it that the spaceliner I was taking blew up. You informed on me, didn’t you? You were in Beryaal’s pay?”

  “You’re remarkably wise,” she said acidly. “But I don’t have to listen to you talk. Kill me and be done with it, Catton!”

  “Kill you? Not till you’ve told me what I want to know, Nuuri. Perhaps, if you tell me enough, I’ll release you.”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  He steepled his fingers. “One aspect of this tangle puzzles me. You worked for Beryaal. So did Doveril. But you offered to betray him to the crime-detection people, and only the fact that he had run away the night before kept him from being picked up with the others. How come one minion of Beryaal would try to sell another one out? Did the wires get crossed?”

  Astonishment registered on Nuuri’s face. After a frozen pause she said, “Doveril was working for Beryaal? ”

  “Does this come as news to you?”

  “I never knew it. Beryaal must have been furious with me! I offered to betray his underling Doveril to you out of personal motives of revenge.”

  “Because Doveril jilted you?”

  “We lived together for a while. We were planning to take out a permanent residence permit. Then, suddenly, he told me that it was all off, that there was someone else, that I would have to leave. I resolved to punish him for that. I was acting on my own, not Beryaal’s designs, when I informed on Doveril.”

  Catton shook his head slowly. “Doveril was a kingpin, in the hypnojewel business, but he was also doing some very important—and illegal�
��work for Beryaal. And Beryaal was employing you to spy on me.”

  Nuuri’s spiked shoulders slumped. “So it didn’t matter that Doveril escaped capture. As head of the Commission, Beryaal would simply have freed him if he had been caught with the others.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Catton said.

  “But how do you know so much about Doveril? Where is he? Have you seen him?”

  “No. But I’ve seen the girl he jilted you for. Doveril dumped her too.”

  “She is here? On Skorg?”

  Catton nodded. “The night before I first met you, Doveril eloped with her to Skorg. But he dropped her after a few weeks. She’s still living on Skorg, here in Skorgaar.”

  Anger glinted in Nuuri’s eyes. “Who is this woman?”

  “Estil Seeman. The daughter of the Terran Ambassador to Morilar. Doveril talked her into running away with him when he saw trouble shaping up for himself. She’s living in a cheap hotel on the other side of town, and playing the gondran in a restaurant so she can pay her rent.”

  Nuuri laughed harshly. “Of course! He was her music teacher, and she disappeared the same night he ran away! But I was too stupid to connect them. He’s left her, you say? Where is he? On Skorg, too?”

  “No. He’s out of the system, on some filthy business of Beryaal’s.”

  “You know where he has gone? Tell me!”

  “It doesn’t concern you,” Catton said.

  “Anything about Doveril concerns me! Tell me! I’ll go there with you, help you capture him—!”

  “Hold on!” Catton said. “I’m going to turn you over to Skorg authorities before I leave.”

  “No! Let me go with you!”

  “After you tried to murder me downstairs? You think I’m going to give you another chance?”

  “I have no interest in killing you,” she said. “Beryaal ordered me to come here and attempt it, and I obeyed him. But Beryaal means nothing to me. I’m interested only in engineering Doveril’s downfall. Let me go to this world with you. We’ll arrange a trap for him. Doveril may still trust me; I’ll lure him to you.”

  “You’d sell anyone out. How can I trust you?”