After a while I learned to suppress what I knew, not let it get in the way of the story. But I never had that trouble with confession stories as neither Fingerhut, nor I, nor Wagner, knew anything at all about women.
Especially about Gwen. Somewhere I had acquired the conviction that women need at least seven pack mules to travel. Or their equivalent in big suitcases. And of course women are by nature disorganized. So I believed.
Gwen moved out of her compartment with just one large case of clothes, smaller than my duffel bag, with every garment neatly folded, and one smaller case of-well, non-clothes. Things.
She lined up our chattels-duffel bag, bundle, large case, small case, her purse, my cane, bonsai tree-and looked at them. "I think I can work out a way," she said, "for us to handle all of them at once."
"I don't see how," I objected, "with only two hands apiece. I had better order a freight cage."
"If you wish, Richard."
"I will." I turned toward her terminal... and stopped. "Uh-"
Gwen gave full attention to our little maple tree.
"Uh-" I repeated. "Gwen, you're going to have to loosen up. I'll slide out and find that nearest terminal booth, then come back-"
"No, Richard."
"Huh? Just long enough to-"
"No, Richard."
I heaved a sigh. "What's your solution?"
"Richard, I will agree to any course of action that does not involve us being separated. Leave everything inside this compartment and hope that we can get back in-that's one way. Place everything just outside the door and leave it, while we go to order a freight cage-and call Mr. Middlegaff-that's another way."
"And have it all disappear while we are gone. Or are there no two-legged rats in this neighborhood?" I was being sarcastic. Every habitat in space has its nightwalkers, invisible habitants who cannot afford to remain in space but who evade being returned to Earth. In Golden Rule I suspect that the management spaced them when they caught them... although there were darker rumors, ones that caused me to avoid all sorts of ground pork.
"There is still a third way, sir, adequate for moving us as far as that terminal booth. That being as far as we can go until the housing office gives us a new assignment. Once we know our new address we can call for a cage and wait for it.
"The booth is only a short distance. Sir, earlier you said you could carry both your bag and your bundle, with your cane strapped to your bag. For this short distance I agree to that. I can carry both my cases, one in each hand, with the strap of my purse let out so that I can sling it over my shoulder.
"The only problem then is the little tree. Richard, you've seen pictures in National Geographic of native girls carrying bundles on their heads?" She didn't wait for me to agree; she picked up the little potted tree, placed it atop her head, took her hands away, smiled at me, and sank down, bending only her knees, spine straight and bearing erect-picked up her two cases.
She walked the length of her compartment, turned and faced me. I applauded.
"Thank you, sir. Just one thing more. The walkways arc sometimes crowded. If someone jostles me, I'll do this." She simulated staggering from being bumped, dropped both cases, caught the bonsai as it fell, put it back on top her head, again picked up her luggage. "Like that."
"And I'll drop my bags and grab my cane and beat him with it. The jerk who jostled you. Not to death. Just a reprimand." I added, "Assuming that the miscreant is male and of mature years. If not, I'll make the punishment fit the criminal."
"I'm sure you will, dear. But, truly, I don't think anyone will jostle me, as you will be walking in front of me, breaking trail. All right?"
"All right. Except that you should strip to the waist."
"Really?"
"All pictures of that sort in National Geographic always show the women stripped to the waist. That's why they print them."
"All right if you say to. Although I'm not really endowed for that."
"Quit fishing for compliments, monkey face; you do all right. But you're much too good for the common people, so keep your shirt on."
"I don't mind. If you really think I should."
"You're too willing. Do as you please but I am not, repeat not, urging you to. Are all women exhibitionists?"
"Yes."
The discussion ended because her door signal sounded. She looked surprised. I said, "Let me," and stepped to the door, touched the voice button. "Yes?"
"Message from the Manager!"
I took my finger off the voice button, looked at Gwen. "Shall I open up?"
"I think we must."
I touched the dilator button; the door spread open. A man in a proctor's uniform stepped inside; I let the door snap back. He shoved a clipboard at me. "Sign here. Senator." Then he pulled it back. "Say, you are the Senator from Standard Oil, ain't you?"
V
"He is one of those people who would be enormously improved by death.**
H.H.MUNRO 1870-1916
I said, "You have that backwards. Who are you? Identify yourself."
"Hunh? If you ain't the Senator, forget it; I got the wrong address." He started to back out and bumped his behind against the door-looked startled and turned his head, reached for the dilator button.
I slapped his hand down. "I told you to identify yourself. That clown suit you're wearing is no identification; I want to see your credentials. Gwen! Cover him!"
"Right, Senator!"
He reached for a hip pocket, made a fast draw. Gwen kicked whatever it was out of his hand; I chopped him in the left side of his neck. His clipboard went flying and down he went, falling with the curiously graceful leisureliness of low gravity.
I knelt by him. "Keep him covered, Gwen."
"One second. Senator-watch him!" I pulled back and waited. She went on, "Okay now. But don't get in my line of fire. please."
"Roger wilco." I kept my eyes on our guest, collapsed loosely on the deck. His awkward posture seemed to say that he was unconscious. Nevertheless there was a chance that he was shamming; I had not hit him all that hard. So I applied my thumb to the left lower cervical pressure point, jabbing hard to cause him to scream and claw at the ceiling if he were awake. He did not move.
So I searched him. First from behind, then I rolled him over. His trousers did not quite match his tunic, and they lacked the braid down the sides that a proctor's uniform trousers should have. The tunic was not a good fit. His pockets held a few crowns in paper, a lottery ticket, and five cartridges. These last were Skoda 6.5 mm longs, unjacketed, expanding, used in pistols, tommies, and rifles-and illegal almost everywhere. No wallet, no IDs, nothing else.
He needed a bath.
I rocked back and stood up. "Keep your gun on him, Gwen. I think he's a nightwalker."
"I think so, too. Please look at this, sir, while I keep him covered." Gwen pointed at a pistol lying on the deck.
Calling it a "pistol" dignifies it more than it deserves. It was a lethal weapon, homemade, of the category known traditionally as "nimble gun." I studied it as thoroughly as I could without touching it. Its barrel was metal tubing so light in gauge that I wondered whether or not it had ever been fired. The handgrip was plastic, ground or whittled to conform to a fist. The firing mechanism was concealed by a metal cover held in place by (believe me!) rubber bands. That it was a single-shot weapon seemed certain. But with that flimsy barrel it could turn out to be a one-shot as well; it seemed to me to be almost as dangerous to the user as to his target.
"Nasty little thing," I said. "I don't want to touch it; it's a built-in booby trap."
I looked up at Gwen. She had him covered with a weapon quite as lethal but embodying all the best in modem gunsmith's art, a nine-shot Miyako. "When he pulled a gun on you, why didn't you shoot him? Instead of taking a chance on disarming him? You can get very dead that way."