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  This seemed a reasonable request to Ron. "But how can I get in touch with you?"

  "There's nothing to it. The very instant you discover his trace, you'll be so amazed that I'll recognize your thought impulse... now that I know what your thought impulses are like. I'll then get in touch with you as fast as possible."

  "Fine," agreed Ron. "I hope you realize that I most likely won't be able to be of any assistance to you. The fact that two beings have disappeared does not prove after all that both vanished in the same direction. Perhaps I'll find my man without ever discovering any trace of yours."

  "Quite likely," admitted the Machraampian. "I'm considering just one of many possibilities. I'm happy you listened to me and declared your willingness to help us. I hope that some day I'll be able to reciprocate."

  Ron was about to pose another question when suddenly the alien creature together with the greenish liquid as well as the cube-shaped box disappeared. Ron was all alone in his hotel room.

  With a sigh of resignation he rose from his armchair. Another one of these teleporters, he thought angrily. What a way to end a conversation! Simply vanish and leave your conversation partner with loads of unasked questions!

  Ron Landry was none too pleased with himself. Ever since he had set foot on Lepso, he felt, he was a marionette dangling on the end of a string rather than the puppet master in charge of everything.

  This situation must come to an end. Ron decided to go on the offensive; it was high time he'd start his mission in earnest.

  A humming sound came from the door. Ron's right hand moved automatically to the small weapon he carried in his belt, then he looked around to figure out how the door could be opened. He found a small switch-panel at the side of his nightstand which was next to the wide bed. He pushed a button which showed a tiny image of an opening door.

  The door swung open and revealed the sight of the beautiful Araukarian woman holding a tray with two glasses and several small bottles.

  "I'm sure you'll follow my advice, sir," she said. "I've chosen the right drink for you."

  Ron saw the two glasses, so conspicuously placed at the edge of the tray nearest to him, and the glittering row of the small bottles with their violet-yellow labels. It was barely a few seconds ago that he had realized he was forced into a role on Lepso he did not cherish at all, namely, being the one who was manipulated and not the manipulator himself. And here he was again, faced by the same situation: somebody telling him what he should do.

  That was more than he could take.

  "Take that stuff away and drink it yourself," he barked at the girl. "If I want to have a drink I'll order one, and besides I insist on having it delivered through the automated room service tube. Is that clear?"

  The smile vanished from the girl's lips. She narrowed her eyes and looked at him with undisguised fury. Then the Araukarian woman turned around and left quickly.

  Ron depressed another button on the switch-panel and listened as the door closed with a dull smacking sound.

  Lepso! What a crazy world!

  3/ AT THE MERCY OF THE SPRINGERS

  That same evening Ron Landry found out where Dr. Zuglert's office had been located. He planned to have a look around there later on during the night. In the meantime he had learned via telecom from the nearest stationed unit of the Terranian fleet that nothing more had been uncovered as to where Dr. Zuglert might be at the present.

  On the other hand all the particulars regarding Dr. Zuglert's person were known, all those which he had been forced to supply to the police on Lepso in order to obtain a permanent resident's permit. According to these data he conducted research in the field of bio-medicine, in particular the development of new therapeutic drugs. He was a native of Switzerland, had a Ph.D. from the university at Bologna in Italy, was 52 years old and had lived on Lepso for the past 14 years and a half. During this period he had left Lepso only three or four times for longer than just a short while—at least as far as the police could tell. His office was located on 86th street. Everybody, of course, realized that a research scientist had to have a laboratory somewhere. But nobody knew where it was.

  As for the rest, the Lepso police refused to engage in any search for the vanished man. They advanced the argument that any person living on Lepso was entitled to come and go as he pleased, to disappear and re-appear, and consequently Dr. Zuglert might regard it as interfering with his personal freedom if the police were to start looking for him.

  The telecommunications officer of the Terranian Fleet who supplied Ron with this information added at this point: "That's nothing but an excuse, Maj. Landry. They simply don't want to get involved. Maybe they'd unearth some facts there that they'd rather keep buried."

  Ron kept mulling over this remark while he set out on his way to 86th street. As he entered the hotel's foyer he noticed another Araukarian girl behind the reception desk. She was every bit as beautiful as the first one who had tried to push a drink on Ron. But the new girl did not smile at Ron; most likely she had been informed by her colleague that it was useless to approach him.

  Ron walked on foot part of the way to 86th street. Darkness had fallen and light sources of all kinds and colors enveloped the city in a flood of lavish brightness. Ron walked halfway around the square which formed the center of the city of Zanithon. During 20 minutes he managed to see so many diverse inhabitants of the galaxy as he had not been able to see in the last three years or so.

  During his walk he had employed all kinds of tricks familiar to a well-trained special agent to make sure nobody was trailing him. Then he took a taxi, this time driven by a giant, fearsome-looking Naat. Ron asked to be let out on 84th street and he walked again for the next two blocks.

  86th street turned out to be a typical part of an area full of office buildings. Older edifices constructed in a large variety of styles reared skyward on either side of the street. Thousands of brightly-illuminated signs actually made any further street lighting unnecessary. The traffic was very heavy but there were hardly any pedestrians to be seen.

  The building housing Dr. Zuglert's office showed a few lighted windows. Somebody, Ron thought, slightly amused, is so crazy in his pursuit of the shekel that he's even working all hours of the night.

  He walked up a flight of low, wide steps leading to the huge glass entrance door. Ron was not surprised that he had to open this door manually; he assumed the electronic eye-opening mechanism had been shut down after office hours.

  He entered the usual large foyer with the information robot on the left side and the row of antigrav shafts to the right. Ron had no reason to address the robot for any information. He knew Zuglert's office was on the 23rd floor, room 23048. He pushed the button with #23 on the panel next to the nearest shaft. He waited until a red control lamp lit up in response to his call. Then he stepped inside the shaft, sure in the knowledge he would be supported and wafted gently toward his destination by the suction exerted by the artificial field of gravity.

  Instead he crashed downward! There was obviously no artificial field of gravity. Ron shared the fate of any other person who'd blithely enter a vertical shaft: he fell with increasing speed toward the bottom of that shaft. He tensed his muscles, trying to brace himself against the inevitable impact.

  There was a resounding smack and Ron Landry of Division 3 was, at least temporarily, out of action.

  • • •

  When he regained consciousness he looked directly into a tanned face with grey, distrustful-looking eyes topped by a fairly-low forehead surrounded by a shock of carefully-groomed dark hair.

  "For heaven's sake, man, talk about luck!" said the dark-haired fellow.

  Ron tried to sit up. He felt pain all over his body without being able to localize it exactly. His mind was clear, though; only his body seemed to have been run over by a steamroller.

  "Where am I?" he asked.

  "On the 23rd floor," answered the dark-haired man. "Room number 2-3-0-4-8. I don't think you've suffered any..."
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br />   Ron sat up with a start and interrupted the man before he could finish his sentence. "How did I get here of all places?"

  The dark-haired man looked at him astonished. "I happened to see you crash down that antigrav shaft, the one that was temporarily out of order. Didn't you see the warning notice? I took another shaft down into the basement and brought you up here to where I had wanted to go in the first place. I was just about to call a doctor when you came to again."

  Ron straightened up but he could not manage to see the entire room. Somewhere behind him, about

  1.50 meters above the floor, was a lamp whose bright light bathed him and the dark-haired chap with a blinding glow. Beyond the cone of light everything was in complete darkness. Ron felt ill at ease.

  "Are you alright?" asked the man solicitously. "Do you need a doctor?"

  Ron shook his head. He was certain to have suffered a few bruises as a result of his fall. But he felt less certain about other matters.

  "Who are you?" he inquired.

  "My name is Gerard Lobson," came the answer. "This is my office."

  "2-3-0-4-8, did you say?"

  "Yes."

  "How long have you had your office here?"

  Gerard Lobson frowned as if he didn't like this question and answered with some hesitation: "For about—4 years."

  "Why are you lying to me?" countered Ron.

  Lobson recoiled slightly. His eyes widened. He seemed to be seized by a sudden spell of terrible fright. "Why am I lying...?" he gasped. "I am not lying... why should I?"

  "This office was Dr. Zuglert's, at least until a few days ago," Ron stated with a firm voice.

  "I demand..." A sudden noise cut him off in the middle of his sentence. It was a scraping sound on the floor, coming from far beyond the blinding lamp. Before Ron could make a move, a deep, resonant voice boomed:

  "Stop! Turn on the light! That will do."

  The lights in the ceiling flared up. Ron felt dazed for a brief moment but then he realized that the stranger's voice had spoken in Arkonese. He turned his head and noticed a writing desk to his right. On it stood the lamp whose bright glare had blinded him until a few moments ago. Behind the writing desk he perceived three figures, two robust broad-shouldered shapes and the third very thin, emaciated and quite a bit taller than the other two.

  Now Ron no longer had any doubt that he had walked into a trap.

  • • •

  One of the broad-shouldered persons approached from behind the writing desk. Ron could make out some object the man was holding in his hand. The stranger bent over Ron's half-reclining body on the floor and held the object close to Ron's face.

  "Drink that, will you!" He was still addressing him in Arkonese. Now Ron could clearly see what the man was holding in his hand. It was a small bottle, containing a few cubic centimeters at most and with a brightly-colored, violet-yellow label.

  He was hit by the sudden realization that this was the same stuff the Araukarian woman had offered him in the hotel. Strange, how many people should seem so anxious to make him imbibe this beverage.

  He turned to Gerard Lobson, who had slid away from him but who was still kneeling on the floor. "What does he want?" Ron asked in English. Gerard appeared to react with surprise. "He says you should drink that."

  "Why?" Now Gerard's mood changed to fear again. "For heaven's sake, drink it down, don't ask so many questions. He..."

  Ron raised up sufficiently by supporting himself on his left elbow while he pushed aside the arm of the broad-shouldered man with his right hand.

  "Drink it yourself!" Ron snarled. "I'm choosing my own drinks." He was still speaking English but he wasn't too sure whether he could convince the three strangers that he didn't understand the Arkonese language.

  Quite obviously, two of these were Springers, members of the race of galactic traders who had their fingers in almost every pie as far as business was concerned. The third one might be an Ara. The Aras were a race closely related to that of the Springers but while the Springers were involved in commerce the Aras were exclusively concerned with science, especially bio-medicine. Both, however, were equal in their lack of scruples.

  The Springer who was bending over Ron became furious. "You're going to drink that!" he yelled, but now in English.

  If only I didn't ache all over, Ron thought angrily, I'd show you what I'm going to do! He tried to stand up. To Ron's surprise the Springer did not interfere with his attempt. Ron did his best to ignore the pain and leaned with his back against the wall behind him. The Springer was still holding the tiny bottle out to Ron.

  "What is it?" asked Ron. "It's some liqueur. Drink it!"

  "And drop dead in a few seconds?" Ron said sarcastically. The Springer shook his head. "If we'd want to do away with you we have far better methods than poisoning you," he declared. That made sense. Ron did not really believe that the little bottle contained some fatal poison. More likely it held some drug which would render Ron tractable to the Springer's wishes or make him talkative or something else. With a trembling voice Gerard Lobson kept imploring him to drink the liquid but Ron remained resolute.

  "No, absolutely no!" he said, "and that's final."

  The Ara behind the writing desk hissed angrily. Ron noticed something moving swiftly in the back of the room. Using his shoulder as a lever Ron pushed away from the wall and flung himself forward. But the accident in the antigrav shaft had left him weak and lessened his reaction time. Before he could hit the ground he felt a heavy, breathtaking blow. A booming bell was ringing inside his head and then he was overtaken by darkness.

  • • •

  As Ron came to for the second time the scene had changed. But it was once again Gerard Lobson who bent over him. "Now they made you take the liqueur by force," he said vindictively.

  Ron sat up. Whatever they might have done to him—it had left him none the worse. On the contrary, he felt wonderful. The pain had vanished and he was prepared to meet any challenge. Vigor surged through his body. Let the Springers try to get him—he would show them who was boss!

  The Ara probably had hit him with a stun gun. He had lost consciousness and they had force-fed him the liqueur against his will.

  "What kind of a drink is that?" he asked Gerard.

  "Just a liqueur," answered Gerard. "That's all I know. It's sold everywhere on Lepso and is very popular."

  That sounded strange.

  "Have you ever had any?"

  "Yes. But not until they got me into their clutches. I was forced to take it, just like you."

  "And how did it affect you?"

  Gerard hesitated for awhile before he replied. "It's pretty strong stuff. It makes you feel powerful, as if you could move mountains and conquer the world."

  Ron admitted that this was exactly what he was experiencing this very moment. "And how long does this effect last?"

  "I don't know," answered Gerard. "Whenever it was about to wear off, I got another sip."

  Ron looked around. They were in a large, windowless room with a hard, uneven stone floor. The walls and the ceiling seemed to consist of the same material as the floor. There were two rows of sturdy pillars which supported the ceiling. An old gas lamp hung from the ceiling between the two rows of pillars and spread a sparse light. He could see a door in the wall to the front. The door was made of metal and after Ron had reached for his own gun and failed to find it any longer he knew it would be impossible to open the door even without closer inspection, for all he had left were his bare hands.

  "That's a basement, isn't it?" he inquired.

  "That's right," confirmed Gerard.

  "Where is it located?"

  "I don't know. They blindfolded me first before they brought me here."

  Ron smiled. "My, how old-fashioned!" Ron felt drawn to the door despite its appearance of being impossible to assault. He walked toward it between the two rows of pillars and tried to turn the old-fashioned doorknob. But as he had expected, nothing happened. The door remained loc
ked and he couldn't budge the knob by even half a millimeter...

  "How often have you been here?" Ron asked Gerard.

  "Just once before this time. That was before they came to get me in order to..."

  "In order to what?"

  "Well, in order to find out from you if..."

  Suddenly Ron could clearly visualize again the scene in Dr. Zuglert's office. Gerard had deceived him and caused him to say that this was Dr. Zuglert's office they were in. And shortly after that the Springers had turned on the light and revealed their presence to him. From this Ron concluded, now, that the Springers did not wish any inquiries as to the whereabouts of the vanished Dr. Zuglert.

  But why? It seemed to Ron that he had made an important step forward in his search since he had first landed on Lepso—even without having contributed any deliberate action on his part. Unfortunately he was now in a situation which most likely would not permit him to do something concrete with this newly-found knowledge. For the time being, he decided, regardless of whether there was a way out soon or not, he should find out from Gerard anything the man knew. After all, Gerard had been the Springers' captive some time longer than he himself. After some initial hesitation Gerard reported truthfully what had taken place that day in Dr. Zuglert's office. He did not conceal that he was horror stricken at Dr. Zuglert's sight and had fled the room, leaving the poor doctor to his fate.

  Ron tried to figure out what had happened next. Most likely Zuglert managed to get to his feet even without Gerard's help, then left the building and made the TTT call to the Florida from somewhere else. Dr. Zuglert had vanished while making this call. This still left one more problem to be cleared up: why would the communications robot assume that call to have originated from one of the transceivers at the Terranian Trade Commission? Gerard, however, was not likely to know the answer to that question.

  "A few hours afterwards," continued Gerard Lobson, "my conscience began to bother me. I was anxious to find out what had become of Zuglert. So I returned to his office. When I got there I found the door wide open. I walked in. Well... I was met by the three guys that you also know by now. They wanted to know what I wanted there, my relationship with Dr. Zuglert, why I had returned and so on. They took me downstairs and once inside their car forced me to drink the liqueur, the same beverage they poured down your throat. Then they blindfolded me and brought me to this place here. I remained in this basement for about four hours. Finally they came back to get me again. Once more I was blindfolded. When they removed the blindfold from my eyes our car had arrived in front of the building in which Zuglert's office is located. We all went upstairs to his office and began to wait. I had no idea what this was all about. When I inquired, I got no answer. They were searching the room and particularly rummaged through his writing desk. Something they found there seemed to surprise them greatly. Then one of them left and when he returned he brought or rather dragged you along. Well, they ordered me to kneel beside you and tell you some lies when you regained consciousness, until you finally revealed that you had come to see Dr. Zuglert. You know the rest."