"What are you doing?" I demanded.
He jumped and then looked perfectly blank. "I was just looking to see if you had any nausea pills." He said woodenly.
"Well, don't dig into my things! You know better." I came up and felt his cheek; he wasn't feverish. "I don't have any. But I noticed where the surgeon's office is. If you are feeling ill, I'll take you straight there and let him dose you."
He pulled away. "Aw, I'm all right-now."
"Clark Fries, you listerj to me. If you-" But he wasn't listening; he slid past me, ducked into his own room and closed the door; I heard the lock click.
I closed the bag he had opened-and noticed something. It was the bag the inspector had been just about to search when Clark had pulled that silly stunt about "happy dust."
My younger brother never does anything without a reason. Never.
His reasons may be, and often are, inscrutable to others. But if you just dig deeply enough, you will always find that his mind is never a random-choice machine, doing things pointlessly. It is as logical as a calculator-and about as cold.
I now knew why he had made what seemed to be entirely unnecessary trouble for himself at outgoing inspection.
I knew why I had been unexpectedly three kilos over my allowance on the centrifuge.
The only thing I didn't know was: What had he smuggled aboard in my baggage?
And why?
Interlude
Well, Pod, I am glad to see that you've resumed keeping your diary. Not only do I find your girlish viewpoints entertaining but also you sometimes (not often) provide me with useful bits of information.
If I can do anything for you in return, do let me know, Perhaps you would like help in straightening out your grammar? Those incomplete sentences you are so fond of indicate incomplete thinking. You know that, don't you?
For example, let us consider a purely hypothetical case: a delivery robot with an unbeatable seal. Since the seal is in fact unbeatable, thinking about the seal simply leads to frustration. But a complete analysis of the situation leads one to the obvious fact that any cubical or quasi-cubical object has six sides, and that the seal applies to only one of these six sides.
Pursuing this line of thought one may note that, while the quasi cube may not be moved without cutting its connections, the floor under it may be lowered
as much as forty-eight centimeters-if one has all afternoon in which to work.
Were this not a hypothetical case I would now suggest the use of a mirror and light on an extension handle and some around-the-corner tools, plus plenty of patience.
That's what you lack, Pod-patience.
I hope this may shed some light on the matter of the hypothetical happy dust-and do feel free to come to me with your little problems.
V
Clark kept his stateroom door locked all the time the first three days we were in the Tn corn-I know, because I tried it every time he left the suite.
Then on the fourth day he failed to lock it at a time when it was predictable that he would be gone at least an hour, as he had signed up for a tour of the ship- the parts passengers ordinarily are not allowed in, I mean. I didn't mind missing it myself, for by then I had worked out my own private "Poddy special" escort service. Nor did I have to worry about Uncle Tom; he wasn't making the tour, it would have violated his noexercise rule, but he had acquired new pinochle cronies and he was safely in the smoking room.
Those stateroom door locks are not impossible to pick-not for a girl equipped with a nail file, some bits of this and that, and free run of the purser's office-me, I mean.
But I found I did not have to pick the lock; the catch had not quite caught. I breathed the conventional sigh
of relief, as I figured that the happy accident put me at least twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
I shan't detail the search, but I flatter myself that the Criminal Investigation Bureau could not have done it more logically nor more quickly if limited, as I was, to bare hands and no equipment. It had to be something forbidden by that list they had given us on Deimos-and I had carefully kept and studied my copy. It had to mass slightly over three kilos. It had to bulk so large and be sufficiently fixed in its shape and dimensions that Clark was forced to hide it in baggage-otherwise I am sure he would have concealed it on his person and coldly depended on his youth and "innocence," plus the chaperonage of Uncle Tom, to breeze him through the outgoing inspection. Otherwise he would never have taken the calculated risk of hiding it in my baggage, since he couldn't be sure of recovering it without my knowing.
Could he have predicted that I would at once go sightseeing without waiting to unpack? Well, perhaps he could, even though I had done so on the spur of the moment. I must reluctantly admit that Clark can outguess me with maddening regularity. As an opponent, he is never to be underrated. But still it was for him a "calculated risk," albeit a small one.
Very well. Largish, rather massy, forbidden-but I didn't know what it looked like and I had to assume that anything which met the first two requirements might be disguised to appear innocent.
Ten minutes later I knew that it had to be in one of his three bags, which I had left to the last on purpose as the least likely spots. A stateroom aboard ship has many cover plates, access holes, removable fixtures, and the like, but I had done a careful practice run in my own room; I knew which ones were worth opening, which ones could not be opened without power tools, which ones could not be opened without
leaving unmistakable signs of tampering. I checked these all in great haste, then congratulated Clark on having the good sense not to use such obvious hiding places.
Then I checked everything readily accessible-out in the open, in his wardrobe, etc.-using the classic "Purloined Letter" technique, i.e., I never assumed that a book was a book simply because it looked like a book, nor that a jacket on a hanger was simply that and nothing more.
Null, negative, nothing- Reluctantly, I tackled his three pieces of luggage, first noting carefully exactly how they were stacked and in what order.
The first was empty. Oh, the linings could have been tampered with, but the bag was no heavier than it should have been and any false pocket in the linings could not have held anything large enough to meet the specifications.
The second bag was the same-and the bag on the bottom seemed to be the same ... until I found an envelope in a pocket of it. Oh, nothing nearly mass enough, nor gross enough; just an ordinary envelope for a letter-but nevertheless I glanced at it.
And was immediately indignant!
It had printed on it:
MIsS PODKAYNE FRIES
PASSENGER, S.S. Tricorn
For delivery in ship
Why, the little wretch! He had been intercepting my mail! With fingers trembling with rage so badly that I could hardly do so I opened it-and discovered that it had already been opened and was angrier than ever. But, at least, the note was still inside. Shaking, I pulled it out and read it.
Just six words-
Hi, Pod. Snooping again, I see.
-in Clark's handwriting.
I stood there, frozen, for a long moment, while I blushed scarlet and chewed the bitter realization that I had been hoaxed to perfection-again.
There are only three people in the world who can make me feel stupid-and Clark is two of them.
I heard a throat-clearing sound behind me and whirled around. Lounging in the open doorway (I had left it closed) was my brother. He smiled at me and said, "Hello, Sis. Looking for something? Need any help?"