Dimanche didn't answer; presumably he was busy scrambling the circuits.
The dealer stretched out his hand. It never reached the cards. Danger:
Dimanche at work. The smile dropped from his face. What remained was
pure anguish. He was too dry for tears. Smoke curled up faintly from
his jacket.
"Hot, isn't it?" asked Cassal. "It might be cooler if you took off
your cap."
The cap tinkled to the floor. The mechanism in it was destroyed. What
the cards were, they were. Now they couldn't be changed.
"That's better," said Cassal.
He glanced at his hand. In the interim, it had changed slightly.
Dimanche had got there.
The dealer examined his cards one by one. His face changed color. He
sat utterly still on a cool stool.
"You win,''I he said hopelessly.
"Let's see what you have."
The dealer-manager roused himself. "You won. That's good enough for you,
isn't it?"
Cassal shrugged. "You have Bank of the Galaxy service here. I'll deposit
my money with them before you pick up your cards."
The dealer nodded unhappily and summoned an assistant. The crowd,
which had anticipated violence, slowly began to drift away.
"What did you do?" asked Cassal silently.
"Men have no shame," sighed Dimanche. "Some humanoids do. The dealer
was one who did. I forced him to project onto his cards something that
wasn't a suit at all."
"Embarrassing if that got out," agreed Cassal. "What did you project?"
Dimanche told him. Cassal blushed, which was unusual for a man.
The dealer-manager returned and the transaction was completed. His money
was safe in the Bank of the Galaxy.
"Hereafter, you're not welcome," said the dealer morosely. "Don't come
back."
Cassal picked up the cards without looking at them. "And no accidents
after I leave," he said, extending the cards face-down. The manager took
them and trembled.
"He's an honorable humanoid, in his own way," whispered Dimanche. "I
think you're safe."
It was time to leave. "One question," Cassal called back. "What do you
call this game?"
Automatically the dealer started to answer. "Why, everyone knows . . ." He
sat down, his mouth open.
It was more than time to leave.
Outside, he hailed an air taxi. No point in tempting the management.
"Look," said Dimanche as the cab rose from the surface of the transport
tide.
A technician with a visual projector was at work on the sign in front of
the gaming house. Huge words took shape: WARNING---NO TELEPATHS ALLOWED.
There were no such things anywhere, but now there were rumors of them.
Arriving at the habitat wing of the hotel, Cassal went directly to
his room. He awaited the delivery of the equipment he had ordered and
checked through it thoroughly. Satisfied that everything was there,
he estimated the size of the room. Too small for his purpose.
He picked up the intertom and dialed Services. "Put a Life Stage Cordon
around my suite," he said briskly.
The face opposite his went blank. "But you're an Earthman. I thought--"
"I know more about my own requirements than your Life Stage
Bureau. Earthmen do have life stages. You know the penalty if you refuse
that service."
There were some races who went without sleep for five months and then
had to make up for it. Others grew vestigial wings for brief periods
and had to fly with them or die; reduced gravity would suffice for
that. Still others--
But the one common feature was always a critical time in which certain
conditions were necessary. Insofar as there was a universal law, from
one end of the Galaxy to the other, this was it: The habitat hotel had
to furnish appropriate conditions for the maintenance of any life-form
that requested it.
The Godolphian disappeared from the screen. When he came back, he seemed
disturbed.
"You spoke of a suite. I find that you're listed as occupying one room."
"I am. It's too small. Convert the rooms around me into a suite."
"That's very expensive."
"I'm aware of that. Check the Bank of the Galaxy for my credit rating."
He watched the process take place. Service would be amazingly good from
now on.
"Your suite will be converted in about two hours. The Life Stage Cordon
will begin as soon after that as you want. If you tell me how long you'll
need it, I can make arrangements now."
"About ten hours is all I'll need." Cassal rubbed his jaw
reflectively. "One more thing. Put a perpetual service at the
spaceport. If a ship comes in bound for Tunney 21 or the vicinity of
it, get accommodations on it for me. And hold it until I get ready,
no matter what it costs."
He flipped off the intercorn and promptly went to sleep. Hours later,
he was awakened by a faint hum. The Life Stage Cordon had just been
snapped safely around his newly created suite.
"Now what?" asked Dimanche.
"I need an identification tab."
"You do. And forgeries are expensive and generally crude, as that Huntnet
woman, Murra Foray, observed."
Cassal glanced at the equipment. "Expensive, yes. Not crude when we
do it."
"We forge it?" Dimanche was incredulous.
"That's what I said. Consider it this way. I've seen my tab a countless
number of times. If I tried to draw it as I remember it, it would be inept
and wouldn't pass. Nevertheless, that memory is in my mind, recorded in
neuronic chains, exact and accurate." He paused significantly. "You have
access to that memory."
"At least partially. But what good does that do?"
"Visual projector and plastic which will take the imprint. I think hard
about the identification as I remember it. You record and feed it back to
me while I concentrate on projecting it on the plastic. After we get it
down, we change the chemical composition of the plastic. It will then pass
everything except destructive analysis, and they don't often do that."
Dimanche was silent. "Ingenious," was its comment. "Part of that we can
manage, the official engraving, even the electron stamp. That, however, is
gross detail. The print of the brain area is beyond our capacity. We can
put down what you remember, and you remember what you saw. You didn't see
fine enough, though. The general area will be recognizable, but not the
fine structure, nor the charges stored there nor their interrelationship."
"But we've got to do it," Cassal insisted, pacing about nervously.
"With more equipment to probe--"
"Not a chance. I got one Life Stage Cordon on a bluff. If I ask for
another, they'll look it up and refuse."
"All right," said Dimanche, humming. The mechanical attempt at music made
Cassal's head ache. "I've got an idea. Think about the identification
tab."
Cassal thought.
"Enough," said Dimanche. "Now poke yourself."
"Where?"
"Everywhere," replied Dimanche irritably. "One place at a time."
Cassal did so, though it soon became monotonous.
Dimanche stopped him. "Just above your fight knee."
"What above my right knee?"
"The principal access to that part of your brain we're concerned with,"
said Dimanche. "We can't photomeasure your brain the way it was originally
done, but we can investigate it remotely. The results will be simplified,
naturally. Something like a scale model as compared to the original. A
more apt comparison might be that of a relief map to an actual locality."
"Investigate it remotely?" muttered Cassal. A horrible suspicion touched
his consciousness. He jerked away from that touch. "What does that mean?"
"What it sounds like. Stimulus and response. From that I can construct
an accurate chart of the proper portion of your brain. Our probing
instruments will be crude out of necessity, but effective."
"I've already visualized those probing instruments," said Cassal
worriedly. "Maybe we'd better work first on the official engraving and
the electron stamp, while I'm still fresh. I have a feeling . . ."
"Excellent Suggestion," said Dimanche.
Cassal gathered the articles slowly. His lighter would burn and it would
also cut. He needed a heavy object to pound with. A violent irritant
for the nerve endings. Something to freeze his flesh . . .
Dimanche interrupted: "There are also a few glands we've got to pick
up. See if there's a stimi in the room."
"Stimi? Oh yes, a stimulator. Never use the damned things." But he was
going to. The next few hours weren't going to be pleasant. Nor dull,
either.
Life could be difficult on Godolph.
As soon as the Life Stage Cordon came down, Cassal called for a
doctor. The native looked at him professionally.
"Is this a part of the Earth life process?" he asked
incredulously. Gingerly, he touched the swollen and lacerated leg.
Cassal nodded wearily. "A matter of life and death," he croaked.
"If it is, then it is," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I, for one,
am glad to be a Godolphian." '
"To each his own habitat," Cassal quoted the motto of the hotel.
Godolphians were clumsy, good-natured caricatures of seals. There was
nothing wrong with their medicine, however. In a matter of minutes he was
feeling better. By the time the doctor left, the swelling had subsided
and the open wounds were fast closing.
Eagerly, he examined the identification tab. As far as he could tell,
it was perfect. What the scanner would reveal was, of course, another
matter. He had to check that as best he could without exposing himself.
Services came up to the suite right after he laid the intercom down. A
machine was placed over his head and the identification slipped into
the slot. The code on the tab was noted; the machine hunted and found
the corresponding brain area. Structure was mapped, impulses recorded,
scrambled, converted into a ray of light which danced over a film.
The identification tab was similarly recorded. There was now a means
of comparison.
Fingerprints could be duplicated -- that is, if the race in question had
fingers. Every intelligence, however much it differed from its neighbors,
had a brain, and tampering with that brain was easily detected. Each
identification tab carried a psychometric number which corresponded to
the total personality. Alteration of any part of the brain could only
subtract from personality index.
The technician removed the identification and gave it to Cassal. "Where
shall I send the strips?"
"You don't," said Cassal. "I have a private message to go with them."
"But that will invalidate the process."
"I know. This isn't a formal contract."
Removing the two strips and handing them to Cassal, the technician
wheeled the machine away. After due thought, Cassal composed the message.
Travelers Aid Bureau
Murra Foray, first counselor:
If you were considering another identification tab
for me, don't. As you can see, I've located the missing item.
He attached the message to the strips and dropped them into the
communication chute.
He was wiping his whiskers away when the answer came. Hastily he finished
and wrapped himself, noting but not approving the amused glint in her
eyes as she watched. His morals were his own, wherever he went.
"Denton Cassal," she said. "A wonderful job. The two strips were in
register within one per cent. The best previous forgery I've seen was
six per cent, and that was merely a lucky accident. It couldn't be
duplicated. Let me congratulate you."
His dignity was professional. "I wish you weren't so fond of that word
'forgery.' I told you I mislaid the tab. As soon as I found it, I sent
you proof. I want to get to Tunney 21. I'm willing to do anything I
can to speed up the process."
Her laughter tinkled. "You don't have to tell me how you did it or where
you got it. I'm inclined to think you made it. You understand that
I'm not concerned with legality as such. From time to time the agency
has to furnish missing documents. If there's a better way than we have,
I'd like to know it."
He sighed and shook his head. For some reason, his heart was beating
fast. He wanted to say more, but there was nothing to say.