Dead Giveaway Page 3

andpopulating it with an estimated six hundred thousand individuals.

  "There can be only one answer: The race that built the City did so forthe same reason that human beings built such megalopolises as New York,Los Angeles, Tokyo, and London--because it was a focal point forimportant trade routes. Only such trade routes could support such acity; only such trade routes give reason for the City's very existence.

  "And when those trade routes changed or were supplanted by others in thecourse of time, the reason for the City's existence vanished."

  Turnbull closed the book and shoved it back into place. Certainly thetheory made sense, and had for a century. Had Duckworth come acrossinformation that would seem to smash that theory?

  The planet itself seemed to be perfectly constructed for a giganticlanding field for interstellar ships. It was almost flat, and if thetranshipping between the interstellar vessels had been done by air,there would be no need to build a hard surface for the field. And therewere other indications. Every fact that had come to light in the ensuingcentury had been in support of the Greek-German xenologist's theory.

  Had Duckworth come up with something new?

  If so, why had he decided to discard it and forget his new theory?

  If not, why had he formulated the new theory, and on what grounds?

  Turnbull lit a cigarette and looked sourly at the smoke that drifted upfrom its tip. What the devil was eating him? He'd spent too much timeaway from Earth, that was the trouble. He'd been too deeply immersed inhis study of Lobon for the past year. Now all he had to do was get alittle hint of something connected with cultural xenology, and his mindwent off on dizzy tizzies.

  Forget it. Duckworth had thought he was on to something, found out thathe wasn't, and discarded the whole idea. And if someone like ScholarJames Duckworth had decided it wasn't worth fooling with, then why was acommon Ph. D. like Turnbull worrying about it? Especially when he had noidea what had started Duckworth off in the first place.

  And his thoughts came back around to that again. If Duckworth hadthought enough of the idea to get excited over it, what had set him off?Even if it had later proved to be a bad lead, Turnbull felt he'd like toknow what had made Duckworth think--even for a short time--that therewas some other explanation for the City.

  Ah, hell! He'd ask Duckworth some day. There was plenty of time.

  He went over to the phone, dialed a number, and sat down comfortably inhis fat blue overstuffed chair. It buzzed for half a minute, then thetelltale lit up, but the screen remained dark.

  "Dave!" said a feminine voice. "Are you back? Where on Earth have youbeen?"

  "I haven't," said Turnbull. "How come no vision?"

  "I was in the hammam, silly. And what do you mean 'I haven't'? Youhaven't what?"

  "You asked me where on Earth I'd been, and I said I haven't."

  "Oh! Lucky man! Gallivanting around the starways while us poor humanshave to stay home."

  "Yeah, great fun. Now look, Dee, get some clothes on and turn on yourpickup. I don't like talking to gray screens."

  "Half a sec." There was a minute's pause, then the screen came on,showing the girl's face. "Now, what do you have on your purported mind?"

  "Simple. I've been off Earth for a year, staring at bearded faces andlistening to baritone voices. If it isn't too short notice, I'd like totake you to dinner and a show and whatever else suggests itselfafterward."

  "Done!" she said. "What time?"

  "Twenty hundred? At your place?"

  "I'll be waiting."

  Dave Turnbull cut the circuit, grinning. The Duckworth problem hadalmost faded from his mind. But it flared back up again when he glancedat the mail tubes on his desk.

  "Damn!" he said.

  He turned back to the phone, jammed a finger into the dial and spun itangrily. After a moment, the screen came to life with the features of abeautifully smiling but obviously efficient blond girl.

  "Interstellar Communications. May I serve you, sir?"

  "How long will it take to get a message to Mendez? And what will itcost?"

  "One moment, sir." Her right hand moved off-screen, and her eyes shiftedto look at a screen that Turnbull couldn't see. "Mendez," she saidshortly. "The message will reach there in five hours and thirty-sixminutes total transmission time. Allow an hour's delay for getting themessage on the tapes for beaming.

  "The cost is one seventy-five per symbol. Spaces and punctuation marksare considered symbols. _A, an, and_, and _the_ are symbols."

  Turnbull thought a moment. It was high--damned high. But then a man witha bona fide Ph. D. was not exactly a poor man if he worked at hisspecialty or taught.

  "I'll call you back as soon as I've composed the message," he said.

  "Very well, sir."

  He cut the circuit, grabbed a pencil and started scribbling. When he'dfinished reducing the thing to its bare minimum, he started to dial thenumber again. Then he scowled and dialed another number.

  This time, a mild-faced young man in his middle twenties appeared."University of California in Los Angeles. Personnel Office. May I serveyou?"

  "This is Dr. Dave Turnbull, in New York. I understand that ScholarDuckworth is on leave. I'd like his present address."

  The young man looked politely firm. "I'm sorry, doctor; we can not giveout that information."

  "Oh, yap! Look here; I know where he is; just give me--" He stopped."Never mind. Let me talk to Thornwald."

  Thornwald was easier to deal with, since he knew both Duckworth andTurnbull. Turnbull showed him Duckworth's letter on the screen. "I knowhe's on Mendez; I just don't want to have to look all over the planetfor him."

  "I know, Dave. I'm sure it's all right. The address is Landing City,Hotel Byron, Mendez."

  "Thanks, Thorn; I'll do you a favor some day."

  "Sure. See you."

  Turnbull cut off, dialed Interstellar Communications, sent his message,and relaxed. He was ready to make a night of it. He was going to makehis first night back on Earth a night to remember.

  He did.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, he was feeling almost flighty. He buzzed and flittedaround his apartment as though he'd hit a high point on a manic cycle,happily burbling utter nonsense in the form of a perfectly ridiculouspopular song.

  _My dear, the merest touch of you Has opened up my eyes; And if I get too much of you, You really paralyze! Donna, Donna, bella Donna, Clad in crimson bright, Though I'm near you, I don't wanna See the falling shades of night!_

  Even when the phone chimed in its urgent message, it didn't disturb hisfrothy mood. But three minutes later he had dropped down to earth with aheavy _clunk_.

  His message to Mendez had not been delivered. There was not now, andnever had been a Scholar James Duckworth registered at the Hotel Byronin Landing City. Neither was his name on the incoming passenger lists atthe spaceport at Landing City.

  He forced himself to forget about it; he had a date with Dee again thatnight, and he was not going to let something silly like this bother him.But bother him it did. Unlike the night before, the date was an utterfiasco, a complete flop. Dee sensed his mood, misinterpreted it,complained of a headache, and went home early. Turnbull slept badly thatnight.

  Next morning, he had an appointment with one of the executives ofU.C.L.I.--University of Columbia in Long Island--and, on the way back hestopped at the spaceport to see what he could find out. But all he gotwas purely negative information.

  On his way back to Manhattan, he sat in the autocab and fumed.

  When he reached home, he stalked around the apartment for an hour,smoking half a dozen cigarettes, chain fashion, and polishing off threeglasses of Bristol Cream without even tasting it.

  Dave Turnbull, like any really top-flight investigator, had developedintuitive thinking to a fine art. Ever since the Lancaster Method hadshown the natural laws applying to intuitive reasoning, no scientistworthy of the name failed to apply it consistently
in making hisinvestigations. Only when exact measurement became both possible andnecessary was there any need to apply logic to a given problem.

  A logician adds two and two and gets four; an intuitionist multipliesthem and gets the same answer. But a logician, faced with three twos,gets six--an intuitionist gets eight. Intuition will get higher ordersof answers from a given set of facts than logic will.

  Turnbull applied intuition to the facts he knew and came up with ananswer. Then he phoned the New York Public Library, had his phoneconnected with the stacks, and spent an hour checking for data thatwould either prove or disprove his theory. He found plenty of the formerand none of the latter.

  Then he called his superiors at