Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Delay in Transit by F. L. Wallace (best novels to read for students txt) 📖
- Author: F. L. Wallace
Book online «Delay in Transit by F. L. Wallace (best novels to read for students txt) 📖». Author F. L. Wallace
He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always work, if I have to."
"As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to do business with Godolphians."
Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.
"Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—"
He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The instrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large. From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that information at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he could get. Dimanche was his special advantage.
"Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can always find something in that line."
"A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't yet gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better as a salesman."
He got up, glowering. "If that's all—"
"It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slot provided for that purpose as you leave."
A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle, swung open. The agency was efficient.
"Remember," the counselor called out as he left, "identification is hard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery."
He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency was also eminently practical.
The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapable contribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of the bureau.
"I've got it," said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum the first counselor had named.
"Got what?" asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle, attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.
"The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner."
"What's a Huntner?"
"A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizing about her home planet when I managed to locate her."
"Any other information?"
"None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reached her. I got out as fast as I could."
"I see." The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless, it sounded depressing.
"What I want to know is," said Dimanche, "why such precautions as electronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?"
Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyingly inquisitive at times.
Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed every sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was removing the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. He turned and peered.
"You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.
"Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions. "Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency were new."
The old man chuckled. "Re-organization. The previous first counselor resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed."
She would do just that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?"
The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.
Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job, afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but he didn't intend to depend on that alone.
"The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval. I don't understand."
Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of homesickness swept through him.
"Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand."
"Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport tide."
Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills, at least not on terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship.
Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at random while Dimanche probed.
"Ah!"
"What is it?"
"That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is subvocalizing."
"I know how he feels," commented Cassal.
"Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can get more,' he tells himself. He is going there."
"A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him."
Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed if—The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.
Cassal stretched his stride and managed to keep the man in sight. He skipped nimbly over the narrow walkways that curved through the great buildings. The section grew dingier as they proceeded. Not slums; not the show-place city frequented by travelers, either.
Abruptly the man turned into a building. He was out of sight when Cassal reached the structure.
He stood at the entrance and stared in disappointment. "Opportunities Inc.," Dimanche quoted softly in his ear. "Science, thrills, chance. What does that mean?"
"It means that we followed a gravity ghost!"
"What's a gravity ghost?"
"An unexplained phenomena," said Cassal nastily. "It affects the instruments of spaceships, giving the illusion of a massive dark body that isn't there."
"But you're not a pilot. I don't understand."
"You're not a very good pilot yourself. We followed the man to a gambling joint."
"Gambling," mused Dimanche. "Well, isn't it an opportunity of a sort? Someone inside is thinking of the money he's winning."
"The owner, no doubt."
Dimanche was silent, investigating. "It is the owner," he confirmed finally. "Why not go in, anyway. It's raining. And they serve drinks." Left unstated was the admission that Dimanche was curious, as usual.
Cassal went in and ordered a drink. It was a variable place, depending on the spectator—bright, cheerful, and harmonious if he were winning, garish and depressingly vulgar if he were not. At the moment Cassal belonged to neither group. He reserved judgment.
An assortment of gaming devices were in operation. One in particular seemed interesting. It involved the counting of electrons passing through an aperture, based on probability.
"Not that," whispered Dimanche. "It's rigged."
"But it's not necessary," Cassal murmured. "Pure chance alone is good enough."
"They don't take chances, pure or adulterated. Look around. How many Godolphians do you see?"
Cassal looked. Natives were not even there as servants. Strictly a clip joint, working travelers.
Unconsciously, he nodded. "That does it. It's not the kind of opportunity I had in mind."
"Don't be hasty," objected Dimanche. "Certain devices I can't control. There may be others in which my knowledge will help you. Stroll around and sample some games."
Cassal equipped himself with a supply of coins and sauntered through the establishment, disbursing them so as to give himself the widest possible acquaintance with the layout.
"That one," instructed Dimanche.
It received a coin. In return, it rewarded him with a large shower of change. The money spilled to the floor with a satisfying clatter. An audience gathered rapidly, ostensibly to help him pick up the coins.
"There was a circuit in it," explained Dimanche. "I gave it a shot of electrons and it paid out."
"Let's try it again," suggested Cassal.
"Let's not," Dimanche said regretfully. "Look at the man on your right."
Cassal did so. He jammed the money back in his pocket and stood up. Hastily, he began thrusting the money back into the machine. A large and very unconcerned man watched him.
"You get the idea," said Dimanche. "It paid off two months ago. It wasn't scheduled for another this year." Dimanche scrutinized the man in a multitude of ways while Cassal continued play. "He's satisfied," was the report at last. "He doesn't detect any sign of crookedness."
"Crookedness?"
"On your part, that is. In the ethics of a gambling house, what's done to insure profit is merely prudence."
They moved on to other games, though Cassal lost his briefly acquired enthusiasm. The possibility of winning seemed to grow more remote.
"Hold it," said Dimanche. "Let's look into this."
"Let me give you some advice," said Cassal. "This is one thing we can't win at. Every race in the Galaxy has a game like this. Pieces of plastic with values printed on them are distributed. The trick is to get certain arbitrarily selected sets of values in the plastics dealt to you. It seems simple, but against a skilled player a beginner can't win."
"Every race in the Galaxy," mused Dimanche. "What do men call it?"
"Cards," said Cassal, "though there are many varieties within that general classification." He launched into a detailed exposition of the subject. If it were something he was familiar with, all right, but a foreign deck and strange rules—
Nevertheless, Dimanche was interested. They stayed and observed.
The dealer was clumsy. His great hands enfolded the cards. Not a Godolphian nor quite human, he was an odd type, difficult to place. Physically burly, he wore a garment chiefly remarkable for its ill-fitting appearance. A hard round hat jammed closely over his skull completed the outfit. He was dressed in a manner that, somewhere in the Universe, was evidently considered the height of fashion.
"It doesn't seem bad," commented Cassal. "There might be a chance."
"Look around," said Dimanche. "Everyone thinks that. It's the classic struggle, person against person and everyone against the house. Naturally, the house doesn't lose."
"Then why are we wasting our time?"
"Because I've got an idea," said Dimanche. "Sit down and take a hand."
"Make up your mind. You said the house doesn't lose."
"The house hasn't played against us. Sit down. You get eight cards, with the option of two more. I'll tell you what to do."
Cassal waited until a disconsolate player relinquished his seat and stalked moodily away. He played a few hands and bet small sums in accordance with Dimanche's instructions. He held his own and won insignificant amounts while learning.
It was simple. Nine orders, or suits, of twenty-seven cards each. Each suit would build a different equation. The lowest hand was a quadratic. A cubic would beat it. All he had to do was remember his math, guess at what he didn't remember, and draw the right cards.
"What's the highest possible hand?" asked Dimanche. There was a note of abstraction in his voice, as if he were paying more attention to something else.
Cassal peeked at the cards that were face-down on the table. He shoved some money into the betting square in front of him and didn't answer.
"You had it last time," said Dimanche. "A three dimensional encephalocurve. A time modulated brainwave. If you had bet right, you could have owned the house by now."
"I did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you had it three successive times. The probabilities against that are astronomical. I've got to find out what's happening before you start betting recklessly."
"It's not the dealer," declared Cassal. "Look at those hands."
They were huge hands, more suitable, seemingly, for crushing the life from some alien beast than the delicate manipulation of cards. Cassal continued to play, betting brilliantly by the only standard that mattered: he won.
One player dropped out and was replaced by a recruit from the surrounding crowd. Cassal ordered a drink. The waiter was placing it in his hand when Dimanche made a discovery.
"I've got it!"
A shout from Dimanche was roughly equivalent to a noiseless kick in the head. Cassal dropped the drink. The player next to him scowled but said nothing. The dealer blinked and went on dealing.
"What have you got?" asked Cassal, wiping up the mess and trying to keep track of the cards.
"How he fixes the deck," explained Dimanche in a lower and less painful tone. "Clever."
Muttering, Cassal shoved a bet in front of him.
"Look at that hat," said Dimanche.
"Ridiculous, isn't it? But I see no reason to gloat because I have better taste."
"That's not what I meant. It's pulled down low over his knobby ears and touches his jacket. His jacket rubs against his trousers, which in turn come in
Comments (0)