Part 21 (2/2)

Quillan waved a hand around. ”That,” he said. ”There are more commercial and industrial spies, political agents, top-cla.s.s confidence men and whatnot on board this s.h.i.+p than you'd probably believe. A good percentage of them are pretty fair lip readers, and the things you want to talk about are connected with the Federation's hottest current secret. So while it's a downright crime not to put you on immediate display in a place like this, we won't take the chance.”

Trigger let that ride too. A group had materialized at an oblong table eight feet away while Quillan was speaking. Everybody at the table seemed fairly high, and two of the couples were embarra.s.singly amorous; but she couldn't quite picture any of them as somebody's spies or agents. She listened to the muted chatter. Some Hub dialect she didn't know.

”None of those people can see or hear us then?” she asked.

”Not until we want them to. Viewer gives you as much privacy as you like. Most of the crowd here just doesn't see much point to privacy.

Like those two.”

Trigger followed his glance. At a tilted angle above them, a matched pair of black-haired, black-gowned young sirens sat at a small table, sipping their drinks, looking languidly around.

”Twins,” Trigger said.

”No,” said Quillan. ”That's Blent and Company.”

”Oh?”

”Blent's a lady of leisure and somewhat excessively narcissistic tendencies,” he explained. He gave the matched pair another brief study.

”Perhaps one can't really blame her. One of them's her facsimile.

Blent--whichever it is--is never without her face.”

”Oh,” Trigger said. She'd been studying the gowns. ”That,” she said, a trifle enviously, ”is why I'm not at all eager to go on display here.”

”Eh?” said Quillan.

Trigger turned to regard herself in the wall mirror on the right, which, she had noticed, remained carefully un.o.bscured by drifting viewers and viewees. A thoughtful touch on the lounge management's part.

”Until we walked in here,” she explained, ”I thought this was a pretty sharp little outfit I'm wearing.”

”Hmmm,” Quillan said judiciously. He made a detailed appraisal of the mirror image of the slim, green, backless, half-thigh-length sheath which had looked so breath-taking and seductive in a Ceyce display window. Trigger's eyes narrowed a little. The major had appraised the dress in detail before.

”It's about as sharp a little outfit as you could get for around a hundred and fifty credits,” he remarked. ”Most of the items the girls are sporting here are personality conceptions. That starts at around ten to twenty times as high. I wasn't talking about displaying the dress.

Now what were those questions?”

Trigger took a small sip of her drink, considering. She hadn't made up her mind about Major Quillan, but until she could evaluate him more definitely, it might be best to go by appearances. The appearances so far indicated small sips in his company.

”How did you people find me so quickly?” she asked.

”Next time you want to sneak off a civilized planet,” Quillan advised her, ”pick something like a small freighter. Or hire a small-boat to get you out of the system and flag down a freighter for you. Plenty of tramp captains will make a s.p.a.ce stop to pick up a paying pa.s.senger. Liners we can check.”

”Sorry,” Trigger said meekly. ”I'm still new at this business.”

”And thank G.o.d for that!” said Quillan. ”If you have the time and the money, it's also a good idea, of course, to zig a few times before you zag towards where you're really heading. Actually, I suppose, the credit for picking you up so fast should go to those collating computers.”

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