Part 9 (2/2)

Trigger shrugged. It still was quite possible, she decided, that her own plans weren't completely spoiled. Holati and his friends didn't necessarily know about that vault account. If they did know she'd had one and had closed it out, they could make a pretty good guess at what she'd done with the money. But if she just kept quiet, there might be an opportunity to get back to Ceyce and the Dawn City by tomorrow evening.

”Cigarette?” the Commissioner's overmuscled henchman inquired amiably.

Trigger glanced at him from the side. Not amiably. ”No, thanks.”

”No hard feelings, are there?” He looked surprised.

”Yes,” she said evenly. ”There are.”

”Maybe,” the driver suggested from the front, ”what Miss Argee could do with is a shot of Puya. Flask's in my coat pocket. Left side.”

”There's an idea,” remarked Trigger's companion. He looked at her. ”It's very good Puya.”

”So choke on it,” Trigger told him gently. She settled back into the corner of the seat and closed her eyes. ”You can wake me up when we get to the Commissioner.”

”In some way,” Holati Tate said, ”this little item here seems to be at the core of the whole plasmoid problem. Know what it is?”

Trigger looked at the little item with some revulsion. Dark green, marbled with pink streakings, it lay on the table between them, rather like a plump leech a foot and a half long. It was motionless except that the end nearest her s.h.i.+fted in a short arc from side to side, as if the thing suffered from a very slow twitch.

”One of the plasmoids obviously,” she said. ”A jumpy one.” She blinked at it. ”Looks like that 113. Is it?”

She glanced around. Commissioner Tate and Professor Mantelish, who sat in an armchair off to her right, were staring at her, eyebrows up, apparently surprised about something. ”What's the matter?” she asked.

”We're just wondering,” said Holati, ”how you happen to remember 113, in particular, out of the thousands of plasmoids on Harvest Moon.”

”Oh. One of the Junior Scientists on your Project mentioned the 112-113 unit. That brought it to mind. Is this 113?”

”No,” said Holati Tate. ”But it appears to be a duplicate of it.” He was a mild-looking little man, well along in years, spa.r.s.e and spruce in his Precol uniform. The small gray eyes in the sun-darkened, leathery face weren't really mild, if you considered them more closely, or if you knew the Commissioner.

”Have to fill you in on some of the background first, Trigger girl,”

he'd said, when she was brought to his little private office and inquired with some heat what the devil was up. The tall grabber hadn't come into the office with her. He asked the Commissioner from the door whether he should get Professor Mantelish to the conference room, and the Commissioner nodded. Then the door closed and the two of them were alone.

”I know it's looked odd,” Commissioner Tate admitted, ”but the circ.u.mstances have been very odd. Still are. And I didn't want to worry you any more than I had to.”

Trigger, unmollified, pointed out that the methods he'd used not to worry her hardly had been soothing.

”I know that, too,” said the Commissioner. ”But if I'd told you everything immediately, you would have had reason enough to be worried for the past two months, rather than just for a day or so. The situation has improved now, very considerably. In fact, in another few days you shouldn't have any more reason to worry at all.” He smiled briefly. ”At least, no more than the rest of us.”

Trigger felt a bit dry-lipped suddenly. ”I do at present?” she asked.

”You did till today. There's been some pretty heavy heat on you, Trigger girl. We're switching most of it off tonight. For good, I think.”

”You mean some heat will be left?”

”In a way,” he said. ”But that should be cleared up too in the next three or four days. Anyway we can drop most of the mystery act tonight.”

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