He dictated, growing irritated as he did so because he couldn't explain what he reported. Something serious had taken place, but there was no clue as to what it was. Strictly speaking, it wasn't certainly a public-health affair. But any emergency the size of this one involved public-health factors.
"I'm remaining aground to investigate," finished Calhoun. "I will report further when or if it is possible. Message ends."
"What about our passenger?"
"To the devil with your passenger!" said Calhoun peevishly. "Do as you please!"
He cut off the communicator and prepared for activity outside the ship. Presently he and Murgatroyd went to look for transportation. The Med Ship couldn't be used for a search operation. It didn't carry enough rocket-fuel. They'd have to use a ground vehicle.
It was again shocking to note that nothing had moved but sun-shadows. Again it seemed that everybody had simply walked out of some door or other and failed to come back. Calhoun saw the windows of jewellers' shops. Treasures lay unguarded in plain view. He saw a florist's shop. Here there were Earth-type flowers apparently thriving, and some strangely beautiful flowers with olive green foliage which throve as well as the Earth-plants. There was a cage in which a plant had grown, and that plant was wilting and about to rot. But a plant that had to be grown in a cage . . .
He found a ground-car agency, perhaps for imported cars, perhaps for those built on Maya. He went in. There were cars on display. He chose one—an elaborate sports car. He turned its key and it hummed. He drove it carefully out into the empty street. Murgatroyd sat interestedly beside him.
"This is luxury, Murgatroyd," said Calhoun. "Also it's grand theft. We medical characters can't usually afford such things or have an excuse to steal them. But these are parlous times. We take a chance."
"Chee!" said Murgatroyd.
"We want to find a fugitive population and ask what they ran away from. As of the moment, it seems that they ran away from nothing. They may be pleased to know they can come back."
Murgatroyd again said, "Chee!"
Calhoun drove through vacant ways. It was somehow nerve-racking. He felt as if someone should pop out and say, "Boo!" at any instant. He discovered an elevated highway and a ramp leading up to it. It ran west to east. He drove eastward, watching sharply for any sign of life. There was none.
He was nearly out of the city when he felt the chest-impact of a sonic boom, and then heard a trailing-away growling sound which seemed to come from farther away as it died out. It was the result of something traveling faster than sound, so that the noise it made far away had to catch up with the sound it emitted nearby.
He stared up. He saw a parachute blossom as a bare speck against the blue. Then he heard the even deeper-toned roaring of a supersonic craft climbing skyward. It could be a spaceliner's lifeboat, descended into atmosphere and going out again. It was. It had left a parachute behind and now went back to space to rendezvous with its parent ship.
"That," said Calhoun impatiently, "will be the Candida's passenger. If he was insistent enough—"
He scowled. The Candida's voice had said its passenger demanded to be landed for business reasons. And Calhoun had a prejudice against some kinds of business men who would think their own affairs more important than anything else. Two standard years before, he'd made a planetary health inspection on Texia II, in another galactic sector. It was a llano planet and a single giant business enterprise. Illimitable prairies had been sown with an Earth-type grass which destroyed the native ground-cover—the reverse of the ground-cover situation here—and the entire planet was a monstrous range for beef-cattle. Dotted about were gigantic slaughter-houses, and cattle in masses of tens of thousands were shifted here and there by ground-induction fields which acted as fences. Ultimately the cattle were driven by these same induction-fences to the slaughter-houses and actually into the chutes where their throats were slit. Every imaginable fraction of a credit profit was extracted from their carcasses, and Calhoun had found it appalling. He was not sentimental about cattle, but the complete cold-bloodedness of the entire operation sickened him. The same cold-bloodedness was practiced toward the human employees who ran the place. Their living-quarters were sub-marginal. The air stank of cattle-murder. Men worked for the Texia Company or they did not work. If they did not work they did not eat. If they worked and ate—Calhoun could see nothing satisfying in being alive on a world like that! His report to Med Service had been biting. He'd been prejudiced against business men ever since.
But a parachute descended, blowing away from the city. It would land not too far from the highway he followed. And it didn't occur to Calhoun not to help the unknown chutist. He saw a small figure dangling below the chute. He slowed the ground-car. He estimated where the parachute would land.
He was off the twelve-land highway and on a feeder-road when the chute was a hundred feet high. He was racing across a field of olive-green plants—the field went all the way to the horizon—when the parachute actually touched ground. There was a considerable wind. The man in the harness bounced. He didn't know how to spill the air. The chute dragged him.
Calhoun sped ahead, swerved, and ran into the chute. He stopped the car and the chute stopped with it. He got out.
The man lay in a helpless tangle of cordage. He thrust unskillfully at it. When Calhoun came up he said suspiciously:
"Have you a knife?"
Calhoun offered a knife, politely opening its blade. The man slashed at the cords. He freed himself. There was an attaché-case lashed to his chute-harness. He cut at those cords. The attaché-case not only came clear, but opened. It dumped out an incredible mass of brand-new, tightly-packed interstellar credit certificates. Calhoun could see that the denominations were one-thousand and ten-thousand credits. The man from the chute reached under his armpit and drew out a blaster. It was not a service weapon. It was elaborate. It was practically a toy. With a dour glance at Calhoun he put it in a side pocket and gathered up the scattered money. It was an enormous sum, but he packed it back. He stood up.
"My name is Allison," he said in an authoritative voice. "Arthur Allison. I'm much obliged. Now I'll get you to take me to Maya City."
"No," said Calhoun politely. "I just left there. It's deserted. I'm not going back. There's nobody there."
"But I've important bus—" The other man stared. "It's deserted? But that's impossible!"
"Quite," agreed Calhoun, "but it's true. It's abandoned. It's uninhabited. Everybody's left it. There's none there at all."
The man who called himself Allison blinked unbelievingly. He swore. Then he raged profanely. But he was not bewildered by the news. Which, upon consideration, was itself almost bewildering. But then his eyes grew shrewd. He looked about him.
"My name is Allison," he repeated, as if there were some sort of magic in the word. "Arthur Allison. No matter what's happened, I've some business to do here. Where have the people gone? I need to find—"
"I need to find them too," said Calhoun. "I'll take you with me, if you like."
"You've heard of me." It was a statement, confidently made.
"Never," said Calhoun politely. "If you're not hurt, suppose you get in the car? I'm as anxious as you are to find out what's happened. I'm Med Service."
Allison moved toward the car.
"Med Service, eh? I don't think much of the Med Service! You people try to meddle in things that are none of your business!"
Calhoun did not answer. The muddy man, clutching the attaché-case tightly, waded through the olive-green plants to the car and climbed in. Murgatroyd said cordially: "Chee-chee!" but Allison viewed him with distaste.