The Currents Of Space

Fife sat there, stony and unmoving. With the conference over, the heat of the crisis gone, depression seized him. His lipless mouth was a severe gash in his large face.

All calculations began with this fact: that the Spatio-analyst was mad, there was no doom. But over a madman, so much had taken place. Would Junz of the I.S.B. have spent a year searching for a madman? Would he be so unyielding in his chase after fairy stories?

Fife had told no one this. He scarcely dared share it with his own soul. What if the Spatio-analyst had never been mad? What if destruction dangled over the world of kyrt?

The Florinian secretary glided before the Great Squire, his voice pallid and dry.

"Sir!"

"WThat is it?"

"The ship with your daughter has landed."

"The Spatio-analyst and the native woman are safe?"

"Yes, sir."

"Let there be no questioning in my absence. They are to be held incommunicado until I arrive… Is there news from Florina?"

"Yes, sir. The Townman is in custody and is being brought to Sark."

13. The Yachtsman

TUE PORT'S LIGHTS brightened evenly as the twilight deepened. At no time did the over-all illumination vary from that to be expected of a somewhat subdued late afternoon. At Port 9, as at the other yacht ports of Upper City, it was daylight throughout Florina's rotation. The brightness might grow unusually pronounced under the midday sun, but that was the only deviation.

Markis Genro could tell that the day proper had passed only because, in passing into the port, he had left the colored night lights of the City behind him. Those were bright against the blackening sky but they made no pretense of substituting for day.

Genro paused just inside the main entrance and seemed in no way impressed by the gigantic horseshoe with its three dozen hangars and five take-off pits. It was part of him, as it was part of any experienced yachtsman.

He took a long cigarette, violet in color and tipped with the filmiest touch of silvery kyrt, and put it to his lips. He cupped his palms about the exposed tip and watched it glow to greenish life as he inhaled. It burned slowly and left no ash. An emerald smoke filtered out his nostrils.

He murmured, "Business as usual!"

A member of the yacht committee, in yachting costume, with only a discreet and tasteful lettering above one tunic button to indicate that he was a member of the committee, had moved up quickly to meet Genro, carefully avoiding any appearance of hurry.

"Ah, Genro! And why not business as usual?"

"Hello, Doty. I only thought that with all this fume and fuss going on it might occur to some bright boy to close the ports. Thank Sark it hasn't."

The committeeman sobered. "You know, it may come to that. Have you heard the latest?"

Genro grinned. "How can you tell the latest from the next-to-the-latest?"

"Well, have you heard that it's definite now about the native? The killer?"

"You mean they've caught him? I hadn't heard that."

"No, they haven't caught him. But they know he's not in Lower City!"

"No? Where is he then?"

"Why, in Upper City. Here."

"Go on." Genro's eyes widened, then narrowed in disbelief. "No, really," said the committeeman, a little hurt, "I have it for a fact. The patrollers are swooping up and down Kyrt Highway. They've got City Park surrounded and they're using Central Arena as a co-ordination point. This is all authentic."

"Well, maybe." Genro's eyes roved carelessly over the hangared ships. "I haven't been at g for two months, I think. Are there any new ships in the place?"

"No. Well, yes, there's Hjordesse's Flame Arrow."

Genro shook his head. "I've seen that. It's all chromium and nothing else. I hate to think I'll have to end by designing my own."

"Are you selling Comet VP'

"Selling it or junking it. I'm tired of these late models. They're too automatic. With their automatic relays and trajectory computers, they're killing the sport."

"You know, I've heard others say the same thing," agreed the committeeman. "Tell you what. If I hear of an old model in good condition on the market, I'll let you know."

"Thanks. Mind if I wander about the place?"

"Of course not. Go ahead." The committeeman grinned, waved, trotted away.

Genro made his siow rounds, his cigarette, half gone, drooping from one side of his mouth. He stopped at each occupied hangar, appraising its contents shrewdly.

At Hangar 26 he displayed a heightened interest. He looked over the low barrier and said, "Squire?"

The call was one of polite inquiry, but after a pause of several moments he had to call again, a little more peremptorily, a little less politely.

The Squire who emerged to view was not an impressive sight. For one thing, he was not in yachting costume. Secondly, he needed a shave, and his rather repellent-looking skullcap was yanked down in a most unfashionable manner. It seemed to cover half his face. Lastly, his attitude was one of peculiarly suspicious overcaution.

Cenro said, "I'm Markis Genro. Is this your craft, sir?"

"Yes, it is." The words were slow and tense.