Time Is the Simplest Thing (22 page)

“Here we are,” he said. “Let's go get that drink.”

The back door opened to his knock and they walked into the back room of the Trading Post. Most of the place, Blaine saw, was used as storage space, but one corner of it served as a living room. There was a bed and stove and table. There was a massive stone fireplace with a wood fire burning in it and comfortable chairs ranged in front of it.

Up near the door that went into the front part of the store stood a massive boxlike structure, and Blaine, although he'd never seen one, recognized it immediately as a transo—the matter transference machine which made the vast network of Trading Posts stretched around the globe an economic possibility. Through that box could come, with a moment's notice, any of the merchandise for which any of the thousands of retail outlets might find itself in need.

This was the machine that Dalton had talked about that night at Charline's party—the machine which he had said could wipe out the world's transportation interests if Fishhook ever chose to put it in public use.

Rand waved a hand at one of the chairs. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said to Blaine. “Grant will rustle up a bottle. You have one, don't you, Grant?”

The factor grinned. “You know I do. How else could I live in a place like this?'

Blaine sat down in one of the chairs before the fire, and Rand took one facing him. He rubbed his hands together.

“We parted over a bottle,” he reminded Blaine. “I'd say it was only fitting to renew our acquaintance over one.”

Blaine felt a tenseness growing in him, the sense of being trapped, but he grinned at Rand.

“You know the margin that I had that night?” he asked. “Eight lousy little minutes. That was all I had.”

“You miscalculated, Shep. You had exactly twelve. The boys were a little slow in getting out the tape.”

“And Freddy. Who'd ever thought that Freddy worked for you?”

“You'd be surprised,” Rand told him blandly, “at some of the people I have working for me.”

They sat easily before the blazing fire of apple wood, measuring one another.

Finally Rand said: “Why don't you tell me, Shep? I haven't all the answers. I can't get it figured out. You ran into that situation out beyond the Pleiades and you got it buttoned up.…”

“Buttoned up?”

“Sure. Buttoned up. Exclusive. We knew that you had something and we sent some others out there and your creature sits and stares at them and that is all it does. They try to talk with it and it's absolutely dumb. It pretends it doesn't hear them. It makes out not to understand.…”

“Brotherhood,” said Blaine. “We went through the rites. You wouldn't understand.”

“I think I do,” said Rand. “How alien are you, Shep?”

“Try me out and see.”

Rand shuddered. “No, thanks. You see, I've followed up your trail. It began with Freddy and got weirder as it went along.”

“And what do you intend to do about it?”

“Damned if I know,” said Rand.

The factor brought a bottle and two glasses.

“None for yourself?” asked Rand.

Grant shook his head. “I've got some stock arranging up front. If you don't mind …”

“Of course not,” Rand told him. “Go on with your work. One thing …”

“What, sir?”

“I wonder if Mr. Blaine could spend the night here.”

“Certainly. Although it's pretty crude.”

“I don't mind,” said Blaine.

“I'd offer you my bed, sir, but frankly it's no bargain. Once you get used to it, you can live with it, but to start out with—”

“I wouldn't think of taking it.”

“I could get some blankets and you could bed down on the floor. Believe me, it would be better than the bed.”

“Anything,” said Blaine. “I'll be thankful for anything at all.”

Rand picked up the bottle and uncorked it.

“I'll bring out the blankets in a little while,” the factor told them.

“Thank you, Grant,” said Rand.

The man left. The door that led into the front part of the store sighed softly shut behind him.

Rand poured out the liquor.

“Actually,” he said, “unless you want to, you don't have to stay here.”

“No?”

“I'm going back to Fishhook. Through the transo. You could come along.”

Blaine was silent. Rand handed him the drink.

“Well, what do you say?” he asked.

Blaine laughed. “You're making it too easy.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Rand.

He took a drink and settled back into the chair.

“The alien part I can understand,” he said. “That is an occupational hazard faced by every traveler. But how does the star machine tie up? You were in cahoots with Stone, of course.”

“You know that Stone is dead.”

“No, I haven't heard that.” But he was unconvincing.

And suddenly, from the quality of Rand's voice, from some intuition, Blaine knew that Rand did not care that Stone was dead or that Finn might be in town. It was all one with him. Or it might be even more than that. It might be that Rand was quite satisfied to know that Stone was dead, that he might approve in good part with what Finn was doing. For Fishhook's monopoly rested upon a non-parry world, upon all the millions of people in the world being forced to look to Fishhook for the commerce with the stars. And so Fishhook and Rand, Blaine realized with something of a shock, might even be quite willing to see Finn's crusade go rolling ahead to its inevitable conclusion.

And if that was true, could it have been Fishhook instead of Finn which had struck the lethal blow at Stone?

He recoiled at the thought, but it clung inside his brain—for the situation was revealing itself as more than just a simple struggle between Finn and Stone.

It might be best, he told himself, to disclaim immediately any connection whatsoever with the star machine. Perhaps he should have made the disclaimer back there at the shed when Rand first had mentioned it. But if he told the truth, if he told Rand now that he had not known of the star machine until just hours ago, he conceivably might lose a bargaining point of uncertain value. And even if he told him, Rand more than likely would refuse to believe him, for he, after all, had helped Riley nurse the truck which had carried it almost all the way from Mexico.

“It took you plenty long,” said Blaine, “to catch up with me. Are you, maybe, losing your grip? Or were you just amused?”

Rand frowned. “We almost lost you, Shep. We had you pegged in that town where they were about to hang you.”

“You were even there that night?”

“Well, not personally,” said Rand, “but I had some men there.”

“And you were about to let me hang?”

“Well, I tell you honestly, we were of divided mind. But you took the decision right out of our hands.”

“But if not …”

“I think most likely we would have let you hang. There was the possibility, of course, that if we grabbed you off, you could have led us to the star machine. But we were fairly confident, at that point, we could spot it for ourselves.”

He crashed his glass down on the table. “Of all the crazy things!” he yelled. “Hauling a machine like that in the rattletrap you used. Whatever—”

“Simple,” said Blaine, answering for Stone. “And you know the answer just as well as I do. No one would be that crazy. If you had stolen something very valuable, you'd get it as far away and as fast as possible.…”

“Anybody would,” said Rand.

He saw Blaine grinning at him and grinned back.

“Shep,” he said, “come clean with me. We were good friends once. Maybe, for all I know, we're still the best of friends.”

“What do you want to know?”

“You took that machine someplace just now.”

Blaine nodded.

“And you can get it back again.”

“No,” Blaine told him. “I'm pretty sure I can't. I was—well, just sort of playing a joke on someone.”

“On me, perhaps?”

“Not you. On Lambert Finn.”

“You don't like Finn, do you?”

“I've never met the man.”

Rand picked up the bottle and filled the glasses once again. He drank half of the liquor in his glass and then stood up.

“I have to leave,” he said, looking at his watch. “One of Charline's parties. Wouldn't miss it for the world. You're sure that you won't come? Charline would be glad to have you.”

“No, thanks. I'll stay right here. Give Freddy my regards.”

“Freddy,” said Rand, “isn't with us any more.”

Blaine got up and walked with Rand over to the transo. Rand opened the door. The inside of it looked something like a freight elevator.

“Too bad,” said Rand, “we can't use these out in space. It would free a lot of manpower.”

“I suppose,” Blaine said, “that you are working on it.”

“Oh, certainly,” Rand told him. “It's just a matter of refining the controls.”

He held out his hand. “So long, Shep. I'll be seeing you.”

“Good-by, Kirby,” said Blaine. “Not if I can help it.”

Rand grinned and stepped into the machine and closed the door. There was no flashing light—nothing to show the machine had operated.

And yet by now, Blaine knew, Kirby Rand was back in Fishhook.

He turned from the transo and started back for the chair beside the fire.

The door from the store up front swung open, and Grant came into the room. He had a striped robe folded on his arm.

“I've got just the thing,” he announced. “I had forgotten that I had it.”

He lifted the robe off his arm and shook it out.

“Isn't it a beauty?” he demanded.

It was all of that. It was a fur of some sort and there was something about the fur itself that made it glitter in the firelight, as if someone had dusted it with tiny diamond fragments. It was a golden yellow with black stripes that ran diagonally and it had the look of silk rather than of fur.

“It's been around for years,” said Grant. “There was this man camping on the river and he came in and ordered it. Fishhook had a bit of trouble locating one immediately, but they finally delivered. As you know, sir, they always do.”

“Yes, I know,” said Blaine.

“Then the man never did show up. But the fur was so beautiful I could never send it back. I kept it on inventory, pretending that someday I'd have a chance to sell it. I never will, of course. It costs too much money for a one-horse town like this.”

“What is it?”

“The warmest, lightest, softest fur in the universe. Campers carry it. Better than a sleeping bag.”

“I couldn't use it,” protested Blaine. “Just an ordinary blanket—”

“But you must,” Grant told him. “As a favor to me, sir. My accomodations are so poor, I feel deeply shamed. But if I knew you were sleeping in a luxury item …”

Blaine laughed and held out his hand.

“All right,” he said. “And thanks.”

Grant gave him the robe, and Blaine weighed it in his hand, not quite believing it could be so light.

“I've still got a little work,” the factor told him. “If you don't mind, I'll go back and finish it. You can bed down anywhere.”

“Go ahead,” said Blaine. “I'll finish up my drink and then turn in. Would you have one with me?”

“Later on,” the factor said. “I always have a snort before I go to bed.”

“I'll leave the bottle for you.”

“Good night, sir,” the factor said. “See you in the morning.

Blaine went back to the chair and sat down in it, with the robe lying in his lap. He stroked it with his hand and it was so soft and warm that it gave the illusion of being still alive.

He picked up the glass and worked leisurely on the liquor and puzzled over Rand.

The man was probably the most dangerous man on earth, despite what Stone had said of Finn—the most dangerous personally, a silky, bulldog danger, a bloodhound of a man who carried out the policies of Fishhook as if they had been holy orders. No enemy of Fishhook was ever safe from Rand.

And yet he had not insisted that Blaine go back with him. He had been almost casual in his invitation, as if it had been no more than a minor social matter, and he had displayed no resentment nor no apparent disappointment upon Blaine's refusal. Nor had he made a move toward force, although that, Blaine told himself, was more than likely due to his lack of knowledge with what he might be dealing. Along the trail, apparently, he had happened on enough to put him on his guard, to know that the man he followed had some secret abilities entirely new to Fishhook.

So he'd move slowly and cautiously, and he'd cover up with a nonchalance that fooled no one at all. For Rand, Blaine knew, was a man who would not give up.

He had something up his sleeve, Blaine knew—something so well hidden that no corner of it showed.

There was a trap all set and baited. There was no doubt of it.

Blaine sat quietly in his chair and finished off the liquor in his glass.

Perhaps it was foolish of him to remain here in the Post. Perhaps it would be better if he just got up and left. And yet that might be the very thing Rand would have figured him to do. Perhaps the trap was outside the door and not in the Post at all. It could be very likely that this room was the one safe place in all the world for him to spend the night.

He needed shelter, but he did not need the sleep. Perhaps the thing to do was stay here, but not to go to sleep. He could lie on the floor, with the robe wrapped tight about him and pretend to sleep, but keeping watch on Grant. For if there were a trap in this room, Grant was the one to spring it.

He put his glass back on the table beside the one that Rand had used, still a quarter full of liquor. He moved the bottle over to make a set piece out of the bottle and the glasses, the three of them together. He bundled the robe underneath his arm and walked over to the fire. He picked up the poker and pushed the burning logs together to revive their dying flame.