Tingle said, "I may have to work overtime."
"I'll authorize it. No sweat."
Tingle grinned because Paz's face was filmed with salty water.
The reason given for overtime would be one more coverup. Lies bred lies, and their growing weight put immense stress on what they were supposed to ease.
Paz's cough sprang Tingle from his reveries. "Do you have anything to add?" Paz said. Tingle rose and said, "No. If that's all ..
"Yes. If anything important comes along, notify me."
"Of course."
Tingle was biting his lip when he left the office. As he walked down the corridor, he felt bladder pressure. Halfway down the corridor, he turned right into a doorway above which was a sign: P & S. The anteroom gave onto a large room with off-white pseudomarble walls, ceiling, and floor. On his left was a long row of urinals above each of which was a strip displaying news programs. On his right was a row of cubicles from which came the muted voices of newscasters and soap opera actors, the flushing of a toilet, and groans.
After looking along the unoccupied row, he chose a urinal in front of Channel 176. John "Big" Fokker Natchipal, its daytime caster, was a man whom Tingle detested. Thus, while he stood there, Tingle could imagine himself urinating on the ever-egregious Natchipal. Four screens away was the channel on which the fantastically beautiful and sexy Constant Tung delivered the news. But he had given up watching her-at least, in toilets-because he usually got an erection and that made it hard (no pun intended) to pee.
However, this time his choice of station did not help him. He could hear her voice faintly, and that was enough to keep him thinking about her. While standing exasperated and frustrated, he became aware that someone was standing a few feet to his left. He turned his head toward her. She was wearing a brown jockey cap on which was a green circle enclosing a red star and a brown robe decorated with small green crux ansatas, looped Egyptian crosses. Her shoulderbag was large, green, and jammed full. Bright green shoes thrust their pointed snouts from under the hem of the robe.
She was short, about five feet eight inches high, slim, and had short black hair gleaming like seal's fur. Her face was delicateboned, high-cheeked, and triangular. Her large dark brown eyes-also reminding him of a seal's-stared at him. Though as beautiful as Tung, she did not have the same effect on him. Her rudeness made him angry.
"Yes?" he said.
Before she could answer, a woman entered, waved at Caird, said, "Good morning, Bob," and disappeared into a cubicle.
"I'm sorry to disturb you here," the woman said in a husky but rapid voice, "I didn't want to wait outside. I don't like to waste time."
"Who are you, and what can I do for you?" he said harshly.
Embarrassment and anger had deflated his penis, but he still was unable to urinate. He said, "I give up," and he zipped his pants. He strode angrily to the washbowl while the woman followed him.
She said, "I'm Detective-Major Panthea Pao Snick. I -"
"I know who you are," he said, looking at her in the mirror. "My superior, Colonel Paz, told me about you. He said-"
"I know. I came into his office a few seconds after you left it." He walked to the hot-air blower and punched its button. She followed him, saying, "I'm authorized to give only a minimum explanation about my mission. But I can and will demand full cooperation."
That meant that the North American Superorganic Council was backing her. Or that she was claiming more authority than she had because she could then get full cooperation. Tingle, as Caird, had done that more than once. However, he did not intend to call her bluff, if it was one. If she was sent by the NASC, she could be investigating rumors or suspicions or, he hoped to God not, facts about the immers. But, whyever she was here, it was not just to pass the time.
Fear groped around in his guts for a handle.
Chapter 11
Snick said, "I want to talk to you privately."
Just as the blower went off, he said, "We can't use my work-office. I doubt you're authorized to go in there."
He started walking toward the exit. Dogging him, she said, "I'm not, though I could be. But that's too much trouble. Ijust want a few minutes where no one can hear us."
He stopped and turned in the hall. Her big brown eyes looked into his as if she were trying to read something in them. They were very beautiful eyes, he thought, unfitted to an organic officer. Or perhaps they were appropriately inappropriate. She could throw a man off guard with them. Who could believe that there was steel behind their softness?
He told her that they could talk in a lounge just down the hall. She walked with him, her legs moving swiftly to keep up with his long and quick stride. He did not slow down. If she was so intent to save time, she could trot for all he cared. His own time was also important.
The lounge was deserted. He seated himself in a big comfortable body-molding chair. Snick took a chair, which deflated a few inches to accommodate her shorter legs. She was facing him across a narrow table.
"Just what do you want from me?" he said. He glanced at his watch.
"Don't you want my identification?"
He waved his hand. "Colonel Paz told me that you wanted to talk to me."
He intended to get all the data he could about her when he got to his office, but he wished to give her the impression that he was not curious about her.
She took from her shoulderbag a small green box and put it on the table. She raised the screen, punched a button, and inserted the tip of the star on the ID disc into the box. He read the display, which showed on both sides of the screen, looked at her photo on the screen, and said, "OK. So you're who you say you are."
"I've been authorized to track down a daybreaker. A citizen of Monday and of Manhattan, Yankev Gad Gril. A doctor of philosophy who teaches at Yeshiva University, an Orthodox Hebrew, a chessmaster, and a specialist in the works of a first-century A.D. Gnostic Christian called Cerinthus."
For a moment, he thought about denying any knowledge. Her statement had been so far from what he had expected, though he really did not know what to expect, that it had numbed him.
"Gril!" he said. "Oh, now I see why you want to talk to me! I play chess with him. But my contact has been limited, of course. I don't know what he looks like, and we've never spoken to each other. Intertemporal chess competition has very strict rules."
She nodded. "I know. However, Gril is now in Wednesday, or at least we think he is. He's a passionate chessplayer, a fanatic ..
"And a great one, too," Caird said. and he may continue his games with you. I don't think he'd be stupid enough to do that, but his passion for it may override his good sense. He might believe that he could transmit his next move to you from a public strip and then get away quickly. I said 'might,' but, actually, he has a good chance of eluding the organics here. If we don't get an immediate report, we can't get a satellite fix on him."
"You want me to report to you or the organics the moment I get his transmission? If I do?"
"Report to me. It may do no good because Gril can set up a delay in transmission and be long gone by the time you get it. But report anyway. Oh, by the way, you haven't already gotten one from him, have you?"
A trick question. No doubt, she had had Bob Tingle's calls checked.
"No, I haven't," he said.
Unless he was under surveillance, any calls would not have been recorded in the communications base. If he had received a picture of the chess board with Gril's next move on it, he would have asked that it be stored until Gril could ask for it. Under normal conditions, Tingle's next move would then be transmitted to Gril when next Monday came. If Gril had sent his next move to Tingle, it would be stored in Wednesday's data bank and also at the Manhattan World Data Bank.