that way he’d be sure you got it right off. Of course,” said the Hill Bluffer, suddenly interrupting himself, “come to think of it, he couldn’t. Because I just got here yesterday and he was already gone; and probably he didn’t want to trust it to any of these Lowlanders. Why, one of them’s just as liable to lose it down a well, or go off and leave it lying someplace—”
He checked himself again.
“Anyway, you go read your message, Pick-and-Shovel,” he said, “and I’ll go dig up Sweet Thing and bring her back here.”
He headed toward the door.
“Just a minute,” Bill called after him. “Who’s Sweet Thing, anyway?”
“Thought you knew,” replied the Bluffer, surprised, opening the door. “More Jam’s daughter, of course—More Jam’s the innkeeper here in town. Passable enough female, I suppose, but like any Lowland woman, talk your head off, even if she hadn’t been listening to those crazy notions of Dirty Teeth. Well, see you in a few minutes—”
Out he went. Bill spun around and headed back through the halfway open door into the living quarters of the Residency.
He knew what he was looking for first, whether Greenleaf or Anita Lyme had actually left him a message or not. Somewhere in this building there would be the official daily log of the project—and the odds were strongest he would find it in the room holding the off-planet communications equipment and project records.
It took him four or five minutes of opening doors before he discovered the room for which he searched. It was a square, white-walled room with office equipment and the two banks of consoles which severally operated the Residency computing equipment and the off-planet communications equipment. On one of the room’s two desks, he saw the heavy, black-bound book which would be the project log. He sat down hastily at the desk and flipped it open, searching for the latest entries.
He found them within seconds, but they proved to be unusually uninformative, merely listing equipment loaned to the farmers and the times and subjects of conferences between either Greenleaf or Anita Lyme and the local natives.
There was none of the diary-like chattiness that isolated project members usually added to log entries in situations like this on Dilbia, and which might have told Bill a great deal more than he now knew about Greenleaf and the girl. Three days ago, there was a brief entry in Greenleafs upright, hard-stroked hand:
… fell from ladder climbing to replace blown-away roofing shakes on Residency roof above north wall. Broke leg. Have called for medical assistance.
The next entry, the following day, was in a sloping, more feminine hand.
0800 hours, local time. Resident Greenleaf evacuated by shuttle from nearby courier ship, for transportation to closest available hospital ship, for treatment of broken leg.
1030 hours. Leaving for conference with Bone Breaker at Outlaw Valley.
Anita Lyme, Trainee Assistant
That was the last entry in the log, two days ago. There was no message for Bill from either Greenleaf or Anita, though it was highly irregular of the girl to go off without leaving one. Unless, that is, she had honestly expected to be back the same day.
Bill closed the log, got to his feet, and stepped over to the communications equipment. It was a standard console, arranged to put whoever used the equipment in touch with a relay station orbiting the planet, which would in turn re-broadcast the message at multilight velocity to its interstellar destination. Bill had been checked out on its use, as he had been checked out on most general equipment in use on off-world projects. He flipped the power switch and pressed the microphone button.
Nothing happened. The power light on the console did not go on. The microphone did not give out the signal hum that announced it as being in operating condition.
The set was dead.
For a second, Bill stared at it. Then, quickly, he ran over the console, flipping check
He checked himself again.
“Anyway, you go read your message, Pick-and-Shovel,” he said, “and I’ll go dig up Sweet Thing and bring her back here.”
He headed toward the door.
“Just a minute,” Bill called after him. “Who’s Sweet Thing, anyway?”
“Thought you knew,” replied the Bluffer, surprised, opening the door. “More Jam’s daughter, of course—More Jam’s the innkeeper here in town. Passable enough female, I suppose, but like any Lowland woman, talk your head off, even if she hadn’t been listening to those crazy notions of Dirty Teeth. Well, see you in a few minutes—”
Out he went. Bill spun around and headed back through the halfway open door into the living quarters of the Residency.
He knew what he was looking for first, whether Greenleaf or Anita Lyme had actually left him a message or not. Somewhere in this building there would be the official daily log of the project—and the odds were strongest he would find it in the room holding the off-planet communications equipment and project records.
It took him four or five minutes of opening doors before he discovered the room for which he searched. It was a square, white-walled room with office equipment and the two banks of consoles which severally operated the Residency computing equipment and the off-planet communications equipment. On one of the room’s two desks, he saw the heavy, black-bound book which would be the project log. He sat down hastily at the desk and flipped it open, searching for the latest entries.
He found them within seconds, but they proved to be unusually uninformative, merely listing equipment loaned to the farmers and the times and subjects of conferences between either Greenleaf or Anita Lyme and the local natives.
There was none of the diary-like chattiness that isolated project members usually added to log entries in situations like this on Dilbia, and which might have told Bill a great deal more than he now knew about Greenleaf and the girl. Three days ago, there was a brief entry in Greenleafs upright, hard-stroked hand:
… fell from ladder climbing to replace blown-away roofing shakes on Residency roof above north wall. Broke leg. Have called for medical assistance.
The next entry, the following day, was in a sloping, more feminine hand.
0800 hours, local time. Resident Greenleaf evacuated by shuttle from nearby courier ship, for transportation to closest available hospital ship, for treatment of broken leg.
1030 hours. Leaving for conference with Bone Breaker at Outlaw Valley.
Anita Lyme, Trainee Assistant
That was the last entry in the log, two days ago. There was no message for Bill from either Greenleaf or Anita, though it was highly irregular of the girl to go off without leaving one. Unless, that is, she had honestly expected to be back the same day.
Bill closed the log, got to his feet, and stepped over to the communications equipment. It was a standard console, arranged to put whoever used the equipment in touch with a relay station orbiting the planet, which would in turn re-broadcast the message at multilight velocity to its interstellar destination. Bill had been checked out on its use, as he had been checked out on most general equipment in use on off-world projects. He flipped the power switch and pressed the microphone button.
Nothing happened. The power light on the console did not go on. The microphone did not give out the signal hum that announced it as being in operating condition.
The set was dead.
For a second, Bill stared at it. Then, quickly, he ran over the console, flipping check
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