"Right hand, index finger," she said wearily. Lafayette approached the desk and offered the digit, which the woman grasped and pressed against a glass plate set in the desk top, one of an array of similar plates interspersed with counter-sunk buttons. A light winked, fluttered, blinked off. Letters appeared on a ground-glass screen in front of the receptionist.
"Raunchini," she said. "Dink 9, Franchet 43, under-category Gimmel. Ring a bell?" She looked at him hopefully.
"Not deafeningly," Lafayette temporized. "Look here, ma'am—I may as well be frank with you. I seem to have stumbled into something that's over my head—"
"Hold it, Raunchini. You can cover all that in your debriefing. I'm strictly admin myself."
"You don't understand. The fact is, I don't know what's going on. I mean, I started off in perfect innocence to have a drink with an old associate, and when I saw what he'd stumbled on, I realized right away that it was a matter for—for higher authorities to handle. But . . ." He looked around the room. "I have a distinct feeling I'm not in Artesia; there's nothing like this there. So the question naturally occurs—where am I?"
"You're at Central Casting, naturally. Look, just take a chair over there, and—"
"Central? I thought so! Thank Groot! Then all my problems are solved!" Lafayette sank down gratefully on the corner of the desk. "Look, I have some vital data to transmit to the proper quarter. I've discovered that when Goruble defected, he stashed away a whole armory of stolen gear—"
A door across the room swung open and a pair of husky young men in crisp, pale-blue hospital garb stepped into the room, guiding between them a flat, six-foot slab of what looked like foam rubber. The latter floated without support two feet above the floor, bobbing slightly like an air mattress on water.
"OK, fella," one of them said, unlimbering a large and complicated-looking hypodermic, "we'll have you comfy in two and a half demisecs. Just hop up here and stretch out, face down—"
"I don't need a stretcher," Lafayette snapped. "I need someone to listen to what I have to say."
"Sure, you'll get your chance, fella," the orderly said soothingly, advancing. "Simmer down—"
Lafayette scrambled around behind the desk. "Listen—get Nicodaeus! He knows me! What I've got to report is triple X-UTS priority! I demand a hearing, or heads will be rolling around here like spilled marbles!"
The orderly looked uncertain, glanced at the woman for support. She waved her hands helplessly. "Don't look at me," she said. "I'm just the flunky on the front desk. Stand by one; Belarius is Duty Officer; I'll get him up here and let him stick his neck out." She pushed buttons and spoke briefly. The orderly flipped a switch at the head of the stretcher; it sank to the floor.
Three minutes passed in a tense silence, with Lafayette hovering behind the desk, the stretcher-bearers yawning and scratching, and the green-haired woman furiously filing her iridescent-green nails. Then a tall, wide-shouldered man with smooth gray hair and a professional air strode into the room. He glanced around, pursed his lips at Lafayette.
"Well, Miss Dorch?" he said in a mellow baritone.
"This is Agent Raunchini, sir. He's apparently a 984 case; but he won't accept sedation—"
"I'm not Agent Raunchini," Lafayette snapped. "And I have priority information to report!"
"A contradiction in terms, eh?" The newcomer gave Lafayette a glassy smile. "Just go along, there's a good fellow—"
"I want to talk to Inspector Nicodaeus!"
"Impossible. He's on a field assignment, won't be back for six months."
"I'll make a deal," O'Leary said. "Listen to what I have to say, and then I'll go quietly, fair enough? Spurd knows I could use a nap." He yawned.
Belarius looked at his wristwatch. "Young man, I don't lightly upset the routine of this Center—"
"What about a Focal Referent in unauthorized hands?" Lafayette cut in. "Is that worth missing a coffee break for?"
Belarius' urbane expression drained away.
"Did you say—don't say it!" He held up a well-manicured hand, shot a nervous glance at the others in the room.
"Possibly I'd best have a chat with Agent Raunchini after all," he said. "A private chat. Suppose we go along to my office, eh?" He gave Lafayette a smile like a warning blinker and turned to the door.
"Well, now we're getting somewhere," Lafayette murmured as he followed.
6
The gray-haired man led Lafayette along a silent corridor to a small room, unadorned except for a row of framed photographs of determined faces lining the walls. Belarius seated himself behind an impressive bleached oak desk, gestured Lafayette to a chair.
"Now, just make a clean breast of the whole matter," he said in a sternly avuncular tone. "And I'll undertake to put in a word for you."
"Sure, fine," Lafayette hitched his chair closer. "It was a Mark III. And according to—to a reliable source, there's more where that came from. With luck, he won't have had time to cart all the stuff into town and sell it—"
"Kindly begin at the beginning, Agent. When were you first approached?"
"Two weeks ago. I found the note rolled up in a pair of socks, and—"
"Who was your contact?"
"Let's leave his name out of it; he didn't know what he was getting into. As I was saying, the note told me he had to see me—"
"The name, Raunchini. Don't attempt to shield your confederates!"
"Will you let me get on with it? And my name's not Raunchini!"
"Now you're claiming to be a prep, eh? That would imply a conspiracy of considerable scope. What do you allege to have done with the real Raunchini?"
"Nothing! Stop changing the subject! The important thing is to grab the loot before the Red Bu—before anyone else gets their hands on it—and to recover the Mark III!"
"Mark II. You may leave that aspect of the matter to me. I want names, dates, drop points, amounts paid—"
"You're all mixed up," Lafayette cut in. "I don't know a thing about all that. All I know is the Mark III was stolen from me while I was asleep, and—" He paused, looking at one of the photos, showing an elderly gentleman with a vague smile and a pince-nez.
"How? With a derrick?" Belarius asked querulously.
"What? How do I know? I had it in my secret pocket, and—"
"Pocket! Look here, Raunchini—don't attempt to make a fool of me! Your only hope for clemency is strict veracity and total recall!"
"My name's not Raunchini!"
Belarius glared, then turned to a small console at his elbow and jabbed at a button.
"Full dossier on Agent Raunchini," he ordered. "And double-check the ID."
"Look here, Mr. Belarius," Lafayette said. "You can play with your buttons later. Right now you need to get a squad in there to collect the stuff and find that Mark III before Lom uses it!"
Belarius turned as the panel behind him
beep!
ed.
"Definite confirmation of Raunchini ID," a crisp voice said.
"Retinal and palm prints check out too. Junior Field Agent, assigned to Locus Beta Two-Four, Plane P-122, Charlie 381-f."
"Your wires are crossed," Lafayette said. "I'm Lafayette O'Leary—or I used to be. Right now I'm Tazlo Haz—"
"Stop babbling, man! An insanity plea won't help you!"
"Who's insane? Why don't you listen to me? I'm trying to save your bacon for you!"
"I doubt if you've ever seen a Focal Referent," Belarius snapped. "You obviously haven't the faintest notion of the machine's physical characteristics."
"Oh, no? It's about six inches high, with a plastic case with a bunch of wires and wheels inside!"
"That does it," Belarius said flatly. "The Mark II is a great improvement over earlier models; but it still weighs four and a half tons, and occupies three cubic yards of space!"
"Oh, yeah?" O'Leary came back. "You obviously don't know what you're talking about!"
"I happen," Belarius rasped, "to be Chief of Research, and Project Officer for the Focal Referent program—which happens to be classified
Unthinkable Secret!
"
"Well—I'm thinking about it—"
With a quick motion, Belarius lifted what was obviously a hand weapon from beneath the desk.
"Send a squad of enforcers to Trog 87 on the double," he said over his shoulder to the intercom.
"Just a minute," Lafayette protested. "You're making a big mistake! I admit it looks a little strange, my having wings—"
"Wings?" Belarius edged backward in his chair. "Hurry up with that enforcer squad," he said over his shoulder. "He may get violent at any moment, and I'd dislike to be forced to vaporize him before we get to the bottom of this."
"I can explain," Lafayette insisted. "Or—well, I can't explain it, but I can assure you it's all perfectly normal, in an abnormal sort of way."
"Never mind the protestations," Belarius said grimly. "Sane or otherwise, I'll soon have the truth out of you via brain-scrape. It may leave your cerebrum a trifle soggy, but in matters of Continuum security, there's no room for half measures!"
"Why don't you check my story out?" Lafayette protested. "What makes you so sure you know it all?"
"If there were one hard datum to check, Raunchini, I'd gladly do so!"
"Listen," O'Leary said desperately, "check on me: O'Leary, Lafayette O'Leary, part-time agent from Artesia!"
Belarius pushed out his lips, gave a curt order to the intercom. As they waited, Lafayette's eyes strayed back to the photo which had caught his eye. He had seen that face somewhere . . .
"Who's he?" he asked, pointing.
Belarius raised an eyebrow, following O'Leary's pointing finger. His expression flickered.
"Why do you ask?" he inquired casually.
"I've seen him—somewhere. Recently."
"Where?" Belarius came back crisply.
Lafayette shook his head. "I don't remember. All those blows on the head—"
"So—you're going to play it cagey, eh?" Belarius snarled. "What's your price for selling out? Immunity? Cash? Relocation?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," O'Leary snapped. "I just—"
"All right, you've got me over a barrel! You know how badly we want to get our hands on Jorlemagne! I won't hassle! Immunity, a million in cash, and the Locus of your choice. Is it a deal?"
O'Leary frowned in puzzlement. "Maybe you've been wearing tight hats," he said. "You don't seem to grasp the idea—"
"Raunchini—I'll have the full story out of you if it's the last thing I do!"
"O'Leary!" Lafayette matched the other's shout.
"O'Leary. Got it right here, Chief," the intercom blatted suddenly.
"Well, thank heaven," Lafayette sighed.
"Would that be Lorenzo, Lafcadio, Lothario, Lancelot, Leopold, or Ludwig?" the voice came back, businesslike.
"Lafayette," he supplied.
"Uh-huh. Here it is. Reserve appointment to classified Locus. Inactive."
"Physical description?" Belarius snapped.
"Six feet, one-seventy, light-brown hair, blue eyes, harmless appearance—"
"Hey," Lafayette protested.
Belarius swiveled to face him. "Ready to come clean now?"
"Look, I can explain," Lafayette said, feeling the sweat start on his forehead. "You see, I accidentally activated the Focal Referent. It was unintentional, you understand—"
"And—"
"And—well, I . . . I changed shape! Apparently I turned into this Tazlo Haz person, and—"
"You were transformed from O'Leary into Haz, is that it?" Belarius said wearily, passing a hand over his face. "Your story grows steadily more remarkable."
"Not exactly," Lafayette demurred. "Before I was Haz I was a fellow named Zorro."
Belarius sighed. "Doesn't this sound a trifle idiotic—even to
your
fevered brain?"
"All right! I can't help how it sounds; what matters is that there's a truckload of stolen Probability Lab gear lying there in the cave waiting for anybody who happens along, and—"
"And where might this alleged cave be located?"
"In Artesia—just outside the city of the same name!"
"Never heard of it." Belarius turned and snapped a question at the intercom, glared at O'Leary as he waited for an answer.
"Right, chief," the voice at the other end came back. "Here it is: Plane V-87, Fox 22 1-b, Alpha Nine-three."
"Are we carrying out any operations there?"
"No, sir. We closed the file out last year."
There was a short pause. "Well, I'll be graunched, sir. The classified Locus this Agent O'Leary was assigned to checks out as this same V-87, Fox 22 1-b, Alpha Nine-three. I'll have to post that to the file—" the voice broke off. "Odd, sir—it seems we have a new recruit on the roster, from the Locus in question, just arrived yesterday."
"Name?"
"O'Leary. Say, that's funny; O'Leary is coded inactive in the main bank—"
"You say O'Leary is here at Central Casting—now?"
"Affirmative, sir."
"Send O'Leary up to Trog 87 immediately." Belarius frowned bleakly at O'Leary. "We'll get to the bottom of this matter," he muttered.
"I don't get it," Lafayette said. "I'm down in your records as having arrived here yesterday?"
"Not you, Raunchini: O'Leary." Belarius drummed on the desk. There was a brief buzz from the door and four uniformed men entered with drawn handguns.
"Stand by, men," Belarius ordered, waving them back.
"I'll bet it's Lorenzo," Lafayette said. "Or possibly Lothario. But how could they have gotten to Artesia? They belong in completely different loci . . ."
A harassed-looking junior official entered, turned to usher in a second new arrival—a small, trim, feminine figure, neatly dressed in a plain white tunic and white knee-boots; she scanned the room with immense, dark eyes, a slight, anxious smile on her delicately modeled lips.
"Good lord," Lafayette blurted, jumping to his feet. "Daphne!"
1
For a moment there was total silence. Belarius looked from Lafayette to the girl and back again. She stared at Lafayette; he grinned a vast and foolish grin and started toward her.
"How in the world did you get here, girl? When they told me they had an O'Leary here, it never occurred to me it might be—"