“Yes, Worker Ten was on that transport,” he confirmed. “That is if she did take it. Certainly her number was registered, as was everybody else’s. There may be a mistake.”
“We could be sure, Master, if we had Worker Ten’s civic photograph transmitted immediately. I could tell in a moment if the girl I saw is the same person.”
“Very well.” The Master touched a button and spoke into the microphone that swung gently towards him. “Civic Records?” he asked. “Transmit immediately a photograph of Worker Ten, female, Domestic Grade.”
“Yes, Master.”
There followed an interval, during which the guard carefully examined his mysteriously ruined gun-belt; then a screen came to life on the Master’s desk and in vivid coloring Worker Ten was depicted, both full-face and profile. She was dark, thin-cheeked, with one eyebrow noticeably higher than the other.
“No,” the guard said flatly. “That is not the woman I saw.”
The Master switched off, frowning a little. “I assume you ordered her to report with her index-card by tomorrow?”
“I did, Master. I assumed her story to be genuine, but now I am extremely doubtful.”
“And you say she was with Mister Bradley and Mister Cardew?”
“Yes, Master. I recognized them immediately: their work makes them pretty well-known at present. That was why I gave her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Quite so. It is unlikely that Mister Bradley would take her to his home since he is known to be living alone at present. Mister Cardew, on the other hand, has a wife. You might do worse than make enquiry at Mister Cardew’s home and get further details. If you fail in that respect then put a guard on all routes out of town and use a secondary investigation corps to keep watch on the homes of both Mister Cardew and Mister Bradley. Just at the moment we cannot afford any laxity with unidentified people. International tension is too great.”
“Very well, Master. I’ll make enquiry immediately.”
The guard bowed his way out and departed. He stayed in the building only long enough to obtain a new belt from the armaments section, then he was on his way in an official car. His arrival at the Cardew home and subsequent hammering on the door stirred Buck out of well-earned slumber.
“What the hell—” he growled, sitting up and listening. “Who’d want me at this time of night?”
He was too fogged with sleep at that moment to think of anything but the blasting site being the cause of trouble. Then when he had stumbled to the window and saw a law officer looking up from the brightly-lighted street he remembered Lucy.
“Eva, quick!” he gasped hoarsely, and she stirred lazily in her bed. “The police I think. Get Ancient to a safe place.”
“But — but where?” Eva groped stupidly for her robe.
“I dunno. Think of something. I’ll keep this quizzer occupied meanwhile.”
Buck flung open the window and leaned out. “Well, what is it?” he demanded — and Eva fled from the bedroom, reaching Lucy’s room in a matter of seconds.
“Wass wrong?” Lucy yawned, awakened from a dream of 2008, in which she and Reggie had been enjoying a picnic. “Who is it?”
“Eva! Get out of bed and follow me — and keep quiet!”
Strangeness in her surroundings caused her several moments’ delay in focusing things. When at last she did get a grip on realities she realized she was being pushed relentlessly, along with the discarded clothes Eva had taken from her bedside, into the washing machine in the kitchen. The lights were not on and the whole thing was a confused struggle in semi-gloom.
“Police are here,” Eva panted, just visible in reflected street light from outside. “This is the only place I can put you. Cover yourself with the clothes, and don’t breathe, sneeze or move!”
The lid closed and Lucy crouched, cold metal fittings prodding into her in most uncomfortable places. She waited, her heart thudding.
“This is an absolute waste of time, officer,” came Buck’s grumbling voice, as he led the way into the living room and switched on the lights. “Digging me out at this hour with your crazy notions!”
Eva fled up the back stairs from the kitchen and regained Lucy’s room. Hastily she remade the bed, removed the borrowed pair of shoes she had previously overlooked, and then hurried back with them to her own room.
“I’m acting under orders, Mister Cardew,” the guard said, his keen eyes darting about the room. “You know as well as I do that we cannot afford to take chances these days, particularly with potential spies.”
“Spies!” Buck exclaimed. “What in blazes do you mean? I assure you—”
“Look here, Mister Cardew, my time’s valuable, and I know you must be wanting to get back to bed. Better let me search the place, then I can report back to headquarters.”
“Where’s your authority?” Buck snapped — but in face of the official card the guard displayed he had no power to say anything further. Grim-faced and inwardly apprehensive he prowled directly behind the officer as he made a routine search of the downstairs rooms, until presently he reached the kitchen.
“Look, man, do you think I’d be idiot enough to try and house a spy?” Buck demanded.
“You might. Anybody might.” The guard’s eyes pinned him. “Sorry. No personal offence intended but anybody and everybody’s suspect these days. The fact remains that the woman you were with on the bridge tonight, with Mister Bradley was not Worker Ten.”
The guard peered inside the food-manufacturing machine and then eyed the washer thoughtfully. The small transparent inspection panel at the front showed only the borrowed clothes Lucy had hastily showed in front of her. He strolled towards it and put his hand to the lid, then his attention was arrested by something in a wicker-basket in the corner. Moving over to it he lifted out a brown silk dress and other odds and ends of feminine finery, including an old-fashioned pair of shoes.
“What are these?” he asked curtly, as Buck stared at them.
“Eh? My wife’s of course. Get your hands off them!”
“I want the truth, Mister Cardew. These garments cannot possibly be your wife’s. I’m married myself and I know that no woman in her right senses wears this kind of thing now. Hundreds of years ago maybe, but not today. What’s the answer?”
“We — er—” Buck rubbed his neck. “We’ve been putting over an amateur television play recently and an old-fashioned character was in it. That was the clothing my wife used.”
“I’d like the name of the play, the public access station from which it was televised, and a copy of the permit to present it.”
Buck became silent. His none too swift brain had run out of excuses.
“All very unconvincing, Mister Cardew,” the guard snapped. “I have no proof, of course, that these extraordinarily old-fashioned clothes belong to the woman I’m looking for, but I will say that it’s a reasonable assumption! Now, are you prepared to give me the facts and save yourself a great deal of trouble later?”
“There are no facts to give,” Buck retorted. “And the sooner you get out of my house the better I’ll like it.”
“I’ll leave when my investigation is complete. Let us go upstairs.”
Bundling up the clothes the guard pushed them into a plastic bag, which Buck sullenly handed to him from a kitchen drawer, then the search continued upstairs. Eva, feigning sleep, felt her heart hammer as the guard switched on the light and went silently but thoroughly around the bedroom — then he came out again and looked at the adjoining door.
“What’s in there?” he asked briefly.
“Vis — visitor’s room.” Buck clenched his fists. He had no idea whether Lucy was in there or not.