I was weak-kneed and sweat-soaked by the time I hung up. But I was smiling in satisfaction. Dan Helgerson was going to be awfully surprised when the police and not me showed up at his hotel.
Nat Hamlin had had two attributes for which he was admired throughout the galaxy by his fellow crooks. He never doublecrossed a buddy and he declared repeatedly that he would rather cut his throat than turn stoolie. Helgerson had given his address because he knew he could trust Nat Hamlin.
But Helgerson had made a big mistake. He underestimated the Rehab conditioning. He wasn’t dealing with Nat Hamlin at all. He was dealing with a guy named Paul Macy, and Macy wasn’t hampered by any of Hamlin’s attributes.
The trial was a closed-chamber affair that took eight hours. Helgerson sat across the room, glaring at me in anger and disbelief. Even then, he couldn’t believe that Nat Hamlin had called copper on him.
The central office of the Galactic Crime Commission sent in a full dossier on Helgerson by ultrafax, and the judge read through it, heard my testimony, and quickly sentenced Helgerson to be remanded to Earth for Rehabilitation. The case didn’t make the Palmyra papers, because my identity as a Rehab had to be kept quiet.
Ellen and I were married the next day; I got a leave of absence and we departed on our honeymoon. The first stop was Earth, where I visited the Rehab Center and asked for a minor refacing—just enough to keep other buddies of Nat Hamlin’s from recognizing me. They altered my hair color from black to reddish-brown, thinned out my nose, widened my mouth, shortened my jaw, and gave me a mustache. Ellen had designed the new face herself. It looked pretty much like the old me, but there were minor differences. When we got back to Palmyra, it wouldn’t be hard for Ellen to explain that I had had an aircar crackup and had needed some plastic surgery.
From Earth we went on to Durrinor, the playground-world, and our three months there were as close to Eden as I expect to get. The time came, finally, sadly, to return to Palmyra. We had a private cabin aboard the spaceship; we still thought of ourselves as honeymooners, and intended to keep on thinking of ourselves that way for the rest of our lives.
The first night on board the spaceliner we had just finished getting settled and unpacked in our stateroom when the doorchime sounded. I opened the door. My jaw slid down an inch or two.
Dan Helgerson was standing outside the door, and he was wearing the blue-and-gold uniform of a crewman. He smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, sir. Welcome aboard the Queen of the Stars. I hope you enjoy your trip, sir.” Then his expression changed as he recognized me behind the minor changes. “Ah—you’re Nat—Nat Hamlin—”
“No,” I said. “Paul Macy, just as it says on the doorplate, Dan.”
He shook his head. “Not Dan. The name is Joseph, sir. Joseph Elson. I’m your purser, and it’ll be my pleasure to serve you during this trip. If you need me, just ring. Thank you—Mr. Macy.”
“Thank you—Joseph.”
We smiled at each other, and he shut the door. Joseph Elson, eh? Well, Joseph Elson it was, then. I hoped I wouldn’t accidentally call him Dan during the course of the trip. A Rehab deserves that much courtesy, after all.