Part 36 (1/2)

The plasmoids were in a small electronic safe built into a music cabinet. The stamp to the safe was in Brule's billfold.

There were three of them, about the size of mice, starfish-shaped lumps of translucent, hard, colorless jelly. They didn't move.

Trigger laid them in a row on the polished surface of a small table, and blinked at them for a moment from a streaming left eye. The right eye was swelling shut. Brule had got in one wild wallop somewhere along the line. She picked up a small jar, emptied some spicy-smelling, crumbly contents out on the table, dropped the plasmoids inside, closed the jar and left the apartment with it. Brule was just beginning to stir and groan.

Commissioner Tate hadn't retired yet. He let her in without a word.

Trigger put the jar down on a table.

”Three of your nuts and bolts in there,” she said.

He nodded. ”I know.”

”I thought you did,” said Trigger. ”Thanks for the quick cure. But right at the moment I don't like you very much, Holati. We can talk about that in the morning.”

”All right,” said the Commissioner. He hesitated. ”Anything that should be taken care of before then?”

”It's been taken care of,” Trigger said. ”One of our employees has been moderately injured. I dialed the medics to go pick him up. They have.

Good night.”

”You might let me do something for that eye,” he said.

Trigger shook her head. ”I've got stuff in my quarters.”

She locked herself into her quarters, got out a jar of quick-heal and anointed the eye and a few other minor bruises. She put the jar away, made a mechanical check of the newly installed anti-intrusion devices, dimmed the lights and climbed into her bunk. For the next twenty minutes she wept violently. Then she fell asleep.

An hour or so later, she turned over on her side and said without opening her eyes, ”Come, Fido!”

The plasmoid purse appeared just above the surface of the bunk between Trigger's pillow and the wall. It dropped with a small thump and stood balanced uncertainly. Trigger slept on.

Five minutes after that, the purse opened itself. A little later again, Trigger suddenly s.h.i.+fted her shoulder uneasily, frowned and made a little half-angry, half-whimpering cry. Then her face smoothed out. Her breathing grew quiet and slow.

Major Heslet Quillan of the Subs.p.a.ce Engineers came breezing into Manon Planet's s.p.a.ceport very early in the morning. A Precol aircar picked him up and let him out on a platform of the Headquarters dome near Commissioner Tate's offices. Quillan was handed on toward the offices through a string of underlings and reached the door just as it opened and Trigger Argee stepped through.

He grasped her cordially by the shoulders and cried out a cheery h.e.l.lo.

Trigger made a soft growling sound in her throat. Her left hand chopped right, her right hand chopped left. Quillan grunted and let go.

”What's the matter?” he inquired, stepping back. He rubbed one arm, then the other.

Trigger looked at him, growled again, walked past him, and disappeared through another door, her back very straight.

”Come in, Quillan,” Commissioner Tate said from within the office.

Quillan went in and closed the door behind him. ”What did I do?” he asked bewilderedly.

”Nothing much,” said Holati. ”You just share the misfortune of being a male human being. At the moment, Trigger's against 'em. She blew up the Brule Inger setup last night.”

”Oh!” Quillan sat down. ”I never did like that idea much,” he said.