Langtree had his shoe off. He shook it, probed inside with a finger, then replaced it. He straightened, his vapid expression returning. The old woman was nearly across the street. Langtree walked casually after her, timing himself so that he passed behind her just after she had pushed the door button, at exactly the moment the door swung open and she began to enter. When she hobbled in, Langtree was right behind her.
Flies were buzzing in the small bare room; Langtree had felt the minute motion of displaced air past his head as he went through the doorway, and knew that at least one of them was no fly. The old woman had not turned, and did not seem aware that there was anyone with her. A door opened in the opposite wall, beside a mound of rubbish; a weasel-faced little man in a blue tunic came out and grinned at the old woman as she went forward. Langtree stayed close behind her, a little to one side. The little man's gaze flicked over them both, returned to the old woman; he muttered something at her in Outworld jargon. She replied in a shrill cackle. The little man laughed, showing discolored teeth. He squeezed the old woman's shoulder, urged her tojyard the inner door.
The clear, small voice of the bone-conduction receiver implanted behind Langtree's ear said abruptly: "Translation. Greetings, little mother. Are you ready for the big untranslated word? Yes, yes, garbled word, always ready, ready for a long time."
As Langtree followed the old woman, the little man glanced at him again and said something too rapidly for Langtree to make out the alien sounds. He smiled vacantly and nodded.
The voice behind his ear said: "Are you two together? Reply Si." But already the little man had put one arm across the doorway and was saying something else. The old woman had paused, was turning her head.
"I don't recognize you" said the voice behind Langtree's ear. "Where are you from, what group do you belong to?" Langtree kept a vacant smile on his face. The little man turned and shot a question at the woman. She replied, shaking her head.
"Is he with you?" said the tiny voice.
The little man was looking at him coldly. "I think there 'as been a mistake," he said in badly accented Standard. The voice behind Langtree's ear continued, "No, I never saw him in my life."
Langtree allowed a look of embarrassment to creep over his face. "Isn't this 17906 Paterson?" he asked.
"No, sir." The little man shook his head. "You are on the wrong si' of town. That address is ten miles from 'ere."
Langtree shuffled his feet, looked bewildered and then stubborn. "But they told me to take the tube downtown and get off at the Imperial Plaza," he said. "Are you sure this isn't—"
"No, sir," the little man said again. He took Langtree's arm and began to propel him toward the outer door. Langtree stumbled, went along passively, making his muscles limp. "Well, I'm certainly sorry," he said. "Uh, how do I get over to where you said?"
"Take the crosstown tube, or go south to one of the power streets," the little man said curtly. Langtree was outside the door. It closed in his face.
On Spangler's console, one screen showed a moving view of a deserted street as Langtree walked along it; another, an aerial view of the closed warehouse doorway. Above, from the square intercom screen, Makaris' face looked at him stonily.
"Langtree tried to run a bluff," said Makaris, skipping off each word. "It was worth the risk, to try to get in directly. Now he'll have to do it the hard way." He paused, added unwillingly, "For a job like this, we need operatives trained to speak Outworld languages. Machine translation and relay is too slow."
"By the time we trained them, the damned jargon would be different," Spangler said.
Makaris nodded expressionlessly. His head turned, then swung back. "Results are beginning to come in from the Out-world resident survey. A little over a hundred calls made so far, using a fax quiz cover, and the percentage of completed calls is hanging right around twenty-three."
"Run a computer test," Spangler said.
"Already done, Commissioner. Correlation with the assembly in the warehouse is fifty-one per cent, plus or minus three. That means—"
"It means there may be a couple of hundred Outworlders already in that warehouse. How could this thing have gone so far before we got even a hint, a rumor, a suspicion?"
Makaris did not reply.
"What does the computer say about the purpose of the assembly?"
"Not enough data yet. Insurrection fifteen per cent, plus or minus eight. Sabotage, eleven per cent, plus or minus six. Correlation with Rithian activity, seven per cent—"
"All right. Makaris, I want heavy assault armor and Gun Units on standby in the tubes around that area. What about those spy-eyes?"
"Twenty in the building now, Commissioner, through ventilators, under doors and so on. So far we haven't been able to get any of them into that section of the warehouse. The fire doors are down, they can't get through."
"What about the ventilators?"
"Dead Storage is still hunting for the building blueprints. Meanwhile, we're trying to find the route by trial and error, but no results yet."
Spangler swore, then turned to the center screen as his eye caught a movement. A dumpy couple in bright figured clothing was approaching the warehouse door. Each held by the hand a child of six or seven.
"The children, too!" Spangler said. "That's the part I fail to grasp, Makaris. Can they be so degraded…"
A fourth screen lighted up, and Spangler saw the warehouse doorway expand, grow gigantic as the door opened. He caught a glimpse of a man's head as the spy-eye flitted through; a moment of confusion and darkness, then the view steadied. The weasel-faced little man was approaching the newcomers.
"Arro, Manel, Delí. Como gran su niyo!"
"Mesi, Udo. Mi Frank ay ja set ano!"
Spangler saw the words begin to appear on the translator screen; he watched them half-attentively.
HELLO MANEL DELI HOW LARGE YOUR CHILDREN
THANKS UDO MY FRANK HAS ALREADY SEVEN YEARS
Spangler tensed. The group at the door swelled nearer as the spy-eye drifted toward them. The door opened, ballooned bigger—the spy-eye was through.
A corridor, a doorway, then a flare of milky light, then nothing. The screen went dark.
"Again!" said Spangler, and hit the console with his fist.
In a private room at the rear of the warehouse, Pembun and a grizzled, sad-eyed man of sixty were sitting on packing crates with slender little glasses of aromatic liquor in their hands.
"Well, Enri?" said Pembun, lifting his glass.
Enri Rodriz gave him a sad, affectionate smile, and raised his glass in turn.
"To peace," Pembun said.
"To peace." They drank, and smacked their lips. "Good jolt," Pembun said.
"The best, old friend. They don't make conya like this on Earth, and their half-assed laws say you can't import it except for your own use. Tell me, why should a government tell people what they can or can't guzzle?"
"Let's talk of something more pleasant," Pembun said.
"This may be our last chance to hoist one together, Enri. I myself am as vigorous as ever, but in all honesty, you are not getting any younger."
Rodriz' brown eyes flashed with mock anger. "Do you tell me this to my face? Have you forgotten the time I picked you up by the ankles—with one hand, by God!—and tossed you into the manure cart?"
Pembun shook his head solemnly. "Truth, Enri. I came out smelling like you."
Rodriz grinned. "What a sharp tongue it has, for such a little man."