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repay sentients in medium suitable to them for information gained." These
sentients are tricky, Chief. They don't seem to empathize, really.
See our reports. They often take without giving in return among themselves,
and it seems to me that under the circumstances a certain modification of
Directive Two would have been quite proper.
But I am not protesting the ruling. Especially since you've pointed out it
won't do any good. When
I get old and skinny enough to retire to a sling in Home Base I guess 111 get
that, home-base mentality too> but way out here on the surface of the
exploration volume it looks diflerent, believe me.
And what is happening with the rest of our crew back at Host's domicile I
can't even guess. They must be nearly frantic by now.
Garigolli
There was some discussion with a policeman he wanted to hit (apparently under
the impression that the cop was his night watchman playing hookey), but I
finally got the little man to the Institute for Psychosomatic Adjustment.
The mausoleum that had graduated my brother-in-law turned out to be three
stories high, with a sun porch and a slate roof and bars on the ground-floor
bay windows. It was not all that far from my house. Shirl had been pleased
about that, I remembered. She said we could visit her brother a lot there, and
in fact she had gone over once or twice on Sundays, but me, I'd never set eyes
on the place before.
Dagger-sharp fangs flecking white spume, none dared dispute me as I strode
through the great green corridors of the rain forest. Corded thews rippling
like pythons under my skin, it was child's play to carry the craven jackal to
his lair. The cabbie helped me up the steps with him.
The little man, now revealed as that creature who in anticipation had seemed
so much larger and hairier, revived slightly as we entered the reception hall.
"Ooooh," he groaned. "Watch the bouncing, old boy. That door. My office.
Leather couch. Much obliged."
I dumped him on the couch, lit a green-shaded lamp on his desk, closed the
door and considered.
Mine enemy had delivered himself into my power. All I had to do was seize him
by the forelock. I
seemed to see the faces of my family-Shirl's smiling sweetly, Butchie's
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cocoa-overlaid-with-
oatmeal-spurring me on.
There had to be a way.
I pondered. Life had not equipped me for this occasion. Raffles or Professor
Moriarity would have known what to do at once, but, ponder as I would, I
couldn't think of anything to do except to go through the drawers of his desk.
Well, it was a start. But it yielded very little. Miscellaneous paper clips
and sheaves of letterheads, a carton of cigarettes of a brand apparently
flavored with rice wine and extract of vanilla, part of a fifth of Old Rathole
and five switchblade knives, presumably taken from the inmates. There was also
$6.15 in unused postage stamps, but I quickly computed that, even if I
went to the trouble of cashing them in, that would leave me $14,745.88 short.
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Of Papers to Burn there were none.
All in all, the venture was a bust. I wiped out a water glass with one of the
letterheads
(difficult, be-
cause they were of so high quality that they seemed likelier to shatter than
to wad up), and forced down a couple of ounces of the whiskey (difficult,
because it was of so low).
Obviously anything of value, like for instance co-signed agreements with
brothers-in-law, would be in a safe, which itself would probably be in the
offices of the Gudsell Medical Credit Bureau.
Blackmail? But there seemed very little to work with, barring one or two
curious photographs tucked in among the envelopes. Conceivably I could cause
him some slight embarrassment, but nowhere near $14,752.03 worth. I had not
noticed any evidence of Red espionage that might put the little man (whose
name, I learned from his letterhead, was Bermingham) away for 10,104 and a
quarter days, while I saved up the price of reclaiming our liberty.
There seemed to be only one possible thing to do.
Eyes glowing like red coals behind slitted lids, I walked lightly on
velvet-soft pads to the kraal of the witch-man. He was snoring with his mouth
open. Totally vulnerable to his doom.
Only, how to inflict it?
It is not as easy as one might think to murder a person. Especially if one
doesn't come prepared for it. Mr. Morgan doesn't like us to carry guns at the
office, and heaven knows what Shirl would do with one if I left it around
home. Anyway, I didn't have one.
Poison was a possibility. The Old Rathole suggested itself. But we'd already
tried that, hadn't we?
I considered the switchblade knives. There was a technical problem. Would you
know where the heart is? Granted, it had to be inside his chest somewhere, and
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