Downbelow Station

He could ignore it, pass on back into Q. Could turn the card in, claim to have found it, or tell the truth: that someone wanted to contact him without others’ knowledge. Politics. It had to be. Someone willing to take a risk wanted something from the representative of Q. A trap — or hope, a trade of influence. Someone who might be able to move obstructions.

He could reach green nine; just an accidental wrong button on the lift. He stopped in front of the lift call plate, alone, coded green and stood in front of the panel so no one passing might notice the glowing green. The car came; the doors opened. He stepped in and a woman came darting in at the last moment, punched the inside plate to code green two. Doors shut; he looked furtively at her as the car began to move, averted his eyes quickly. The car made a one-section traverse and started down. She got off at two; he stayed on, while the car picked up passengers, none that knew him. It stopped at six, at seven, acquired more. At eight, two got out; nine: he exited with four others, walked toward the docks, his fingers sweating on the card. He passed occasional troopers, who kept a general watch on the flow of traffic in the halls. None of them was likely to notice an ordinary man walking down a hall, stopping at a door, using a card to enter. It was the most natural of actions. Crossway four was coming up. There was no guard there. He slowed, thinking desperately, his heart speeding; he began to think of walking on.

A walker just behind him hooked his sleeve and brusquely swept him forward. “Come on,” the man said, and turned the corner with him. He made no resistance, fearing knives, instincts bred in Q. Of course the deliverer of the card had come down too… or had some confederate. He moved puppetlike, walked the crosshall to the door. Let free, the walker passing on, he used the card.

He walked in. It was a small apartment, with an unmade bed, discarded clothes lying all over it. A man walked out of the nook which served as kitchen, a nondescript man in his middle thirties. “Who are you?” the man asked him.

It set him off balance. He started to pocket the card, but the man held out his hand demanding it. He surrendered it “Name?” the man asked.

“Kressich.” And desperately: “I’m due… they’ll miss me any minute.”

“Then I won’t keep you too long. You’re from Russell’s Star, Mr. Kressich, yes?”

“I thought you didn’t know me.”

“A wife, Jen Justin; a son, Romy.”

He felt beside him for a littered chair, leaned on it, his heart paining him. “What are you talking about?”

“Am I correct, Vassily Kressich?”

He nodded.

“The trust your fellow citizens of Q have placed in you… to represent their interests. You are, of course, one j whose initiative they respect… regarding their interests.” j

“Make your point.”

“Your constituency is in a bad position… papers entangled. And when the military security gets tighter, as it will, with Mazian’s forces in control — I do wonder, Mr. Kressich, what kind of measures could be set up. You’ve all opposed Union after one fashion and the other, of course, some out of genuine dislike; some out of self-interest; some out of convenience. You, now, what sort were you?”

“Where do you get your information?”

“Official sources. I know a great deal about you that you never told this comp. I’ve done research. To put it finely, I’ve seen your wife and son, Mr. Kressich. Are you interested?”

He nodded, unable to do more than nod. He leaned on the chair, trying to breathe.

“They’re well. On a station the name of which I know… where I saw them. Or perhaps moved by now. Union has realized their possible value, knowing the name of the man who represents so formidable a number of people on Pell. Computer search turned them up, but they’ll not be lost again. Would you like to see them again, Mr. Kressich?”

“What do you want from me?”

“A little of your time. A little preparation for the future. You can protect yourself, your family, your constituents, who are pariahs under Mazian. What help could you get from Mazian in locating your family? Or how could he get you to them? And surely there are other families divided, who may now repent a rash decision, a decision Mazian forced them to take, who may understand… that the real interest of any Beyonder is the Beyond itself.”

“You’re Union,” Kressich said, to have it beyond doubt

“Mr. Kressich, I’m Beyonder. Aren’t you?”

He sat down on the arm of the chair, for his knees were unsteady. “What is it you want?”

“Surely there’s a power structure in Q, something you would know. Surely a man like you… is in contact with it.”

“I have contacts.”

“And influence?”

“And influence.”

“You’ll be in Union hands sooner or later; you realize that… if Mazian doesn’t take measures of his own. Do you realize what he might do if he decides he wants to stay here? You think he’s going to have Q near his ships? No, Mr. Kressich, you’re on the one hand cheap labor; on the other a nuisance. Depending on the situation. The way things are going to go — very soon — you’re going to be a liability to him. What means can I use to contact you, Mr. Kressich?”

“You contacted me today.”

“Where is your office?”

“Orange nine 1001.”

“Is there com?”

“Station. Just station can call through to me. And it breaks down. Anytime I want to call, I have to clear it through com central; it’s set up that way. You can’t — can’t call through. And it’s always broken.”

“Q is prone to riot, is it not?”

He nodded.

“Could the councillor of Q… arrange one?”

A second time he nodded. Sweat was ru

“When you’ve done what you can for me, a guaranteed ticket off, Mr. Kressich. Gather your forces. I don’t even ask to know who they are. But you’ll know me. A message from me will use the word Vassily. That’s all. Just that word. And if such a call should come, you see that there is — immediate and widespread disturbance. And for that, you may begin to look forward to that reunion.”

“Who are you?”

“Go on now. You’ve lost no more than ten minutes of your time. You can make up most of it. I’d hurry, Mr. Kressich.”

He rose, glanced back, left in haste, the corridor air cold on his face. No one challenged him, no one noticed. He matched the pace of the main corridor, and decided that if challenged about the time, he had talked to Konstantin, talked to people in the foyer; that he had gotten ill and stopped in a restroom. Konstantin himself would attest that he had left upset. He wiped his face with his hand, his vision tending to blur, rounded the corner onto green dock, and kept walking, into blue, and toward the line.

There was a knock at the door. Hale answered it, and Jon turned tensely from his place by the kitchen bar, let go a profound sigh of relief as Jessad walked in, and the door closed behind him.

“No trouble,” Jessad said, “They’re covering up the signs, you know. Preparing for in-station action. Makes finding directions a little difficult.”

“Kressich, confound you.”

“No trouble.” Jessad stripped off his coat and tossed it to Hale’s man Keifer, who had appeared from the bedroom. Keifer felt the jacket pocket at once, recovered his papers with understandable relief. “You didn’t get stopped,” Keifer said.

“No,” Jessad said. “Just walked right to your apartment, went in, sent your partner out with the card… all very smooth.”

“He agreed?” Jon asked.

“Of course he agreed.” Jessad was in an unusual mood, feeling a residue of excitement, his normally dull eyes alive with humor. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink.

“My clothes,” Keifer objected.

Jessad laughed, sipped at the drink, then set it down and began to take off the shirt. “He’s back in Q by now. And we control it.”