The man did not appear to be paying any attention to me. He asked some sort of question of the clerk at the desk and got a short answer; whereupon he nodded and drifted over to a side of the room, staring thoughtfully out the window. His eyes were hidden beneath the broad red brim of his hat; white-gloved fingers were tapping on the window ledge.
But I was morally sure he saw every move I made.
I bought a newstape at the stand in the Ferry Building, and strode out the door. There was no looking back, either the man followed me, or he did not.
I headed down toward the water, walking at a brisk pace. It was now full dark; I had a few hours yet before the Isle of Spain’s sailing at midnight, but little time to waste. The sky was a dome of dull yellow light, the city’s lights reflected back from the blanket of fog. Bright, hazy haloes clung to street lamps and beacons. All to the good!
I swung around a dark corner in an almost deserted street, near the docks that once had been so tumultuously busy night and day and now were nearly abandoned, and ducked into a doorway.
The man in the white suit fell neatly into the trap. He came quietly around the corner; I didn’t hear him until he was almost before my doorway. I stepped out, hand in my pocket to make it look as though I had a gun, and said:
“Hold it!”
He showed no surprise. He stared at me from under the red brim for a moment. Then he said evenly, “Don’t shoot.”
His breathing was slow; he was not at all excited. For a moment the thought had crossed my mind: Suppose I was wrong?
Suppose he was a harmless pedestrian—suppose he cried out and the police came? The natural presumption would be that I was a hold-up man; no doubt I could clear myself, but I certainly would miss my ship—and one experience of missing a ship was enough for me!
But this man was no harmless pedestrian. It was almost as though he expected trouble. He didn’t move a muscle as he said:
“Take it easy, boy. Careful with the gun.”
“Careful!” I said angrily. “What are you following me for? Hurry up—talk!”
He said with mock-innocence, “What in the world are you talking about?”
I said hotly, “You know! Don’t waste my time—come across or I’ll shoot!”
Naturally, I had no intention of shooting—even if I had had a gun to shoot with! Whether he knew that I will never know; he turned to face me more squarely, moved his lips as though he were about to speak. His mouth opened a little…
Too late I saw the tiny, glittering metal thing he held between his teeth.
The tiny stream had already jetted from it as he crushed it between his teeth, forced the spurt of its contents. I felt the cold little drops strike my cheek. Instantly the chillness changed to a stabbing sensation of heat. Searing flame flashed over the side of my face; hot needles stabbed into my brain.
I should have known, I told myself dazedly in that split-second of realization—I should have known he would protect himself. The anesthetic-capsule was an old trick; I should have thought of it…
Sheets of blinding light were flickering before my sight. They faded.
Then there was only darkness. I felt myself falling as the anesthetic struck home.
It must have been an hour or more before I came to.
I got stiffly to my feet, muscles aching from the damp ground.
I was in the doorway still; no one was in sight. Leaning against the wall for support, I took quick inventory of my pockets.
I had been searched; that much was obvious. My wallet was on the ground, my passport hanging half out of it.
But nothing seemed to be missing. Not my passport; not my I.D. card; not my money or my watch. It had been no simple robbery, that was certain; I carried quite a lot of money, and not a penny of it was gone.
I tried to brush off my sodden clothing and staggered to the corner. I had no idea of the time; all I could think of was the sailing of the Isle of Spain at midnight.
Luck was with me. An empty cab cruised by overhead; I hailed it, and it settled to the curb beside me with a gentle whir of its rotor blades.
I thought briefly of the police; certainly I should report this…
But, by the dashboard clock in the helicab, I had just time to make the sailing.
I ordered the cab pilot to take me to the slip where the Isle of Spain was waiting. Fortunately my bags were already aboard; nothing, at any rate, had been lost by my unfortunate encounter with White Suit.
At least, that is what I thought at the time…
9
Aboard the Isle of Spain
But when I boarded the Isle of Spain I forgot all my troubles.
The giant sub-sea liner, more than a thousand feet long, as thick through as a seven-story building, bobbed lightly in the Pacific swell. I boarded her through a covered ramp, but even so, through portholes in the ramp, I saw the gleaming Edenite armor that flanked her whole length, the mighty sweep of her lines, torpedo-shaped, forward and aft.
I was realizing one of the great ambitions of my life! Below this heaving, gray expanse lay the Pacific bottom, sloping off for miles in the shallow continental shelf, then plunging to the mighty Deeps where Marinia lay, three thousand miles away and fifteen hundred and more fathoms down.
In a matter of moments I would be slipping through the water, en route to the cities of the sea!
I almost forgot the Academy—my uncle’s death—the man in the red hat.
Almost… but not quite. I made a covert search of all the other passengers in sight. Vacationers, some of them, using the long sub-sea voyage as a pleasure cruise. Hardbitten sub-sea miners, their skin dark in the Troyon light. Keen-featured ship’s officers and crew, moving efficiently through the crowds, getting ready to get under weigh. Even a group of ensigns and sub-lieutenants—I felt a sharp stab of jealousy—in the dress scarlet of the Sub-Sea Service.
But no one who looked at all dangerous to me; certainly no one as striking as the man in the red hat.
I signed on the passenger list, and waited for the steward to have me shown to my stateroom. I sat looking around at the passengers.
Then it occurred to me. The man in the red hat had been a striking figure; so conspicuous that he might almost be invisible through sheer obviousness, if I hadn’t happened vaguely to recall seeing him.
Perhaps—perhaps whoever it was who was so interested in my doings would try the opposite tack. Perhaps someone so neutral and inconspicuous as to be even less visible would be next.
With new eyes I looked at the crowd in the saloon.
In a moment I had found him; I was sure of it.
He was slumped down, staring at the floor, in the midst of his luggage. A small man, thin, shrunken. His narrow face was expressionless; his pale eyes blank. His garments were a neutral gray, neither neat nor shabby.
He was the sort of individual who could enter a room without being noticed, who had no single characteristic that would stick in the memory.
Of course—I told myself—I might be seeing ghosts.
He might be a perfectly harmless passenger. Perhaps no one on the ship was interested in me at all. Still—the persons who had gone to such lengths to knock me out and search me on the deserted San Francisco streets would likely keep an eye on me still.
At any rate, I was going to keep an eye on him.
A white-clad steward came toward me; I handed my bags over to him, tipped him, and let him go to my stateroom without me. I accompanied him just as far as the entrance to the saloon; there I waited, out of sight, to see what the gray man would do.
In a few minutes he hailed a steward, handed over his bags, and moved off in the same direction as my own steward had gone. I let him get well ahead, then followed.