The facility itself was a surprise, decorated with local shrubs and fountains, its lushness in stark contrast to the spartan exterior of the building. It was divided into three sections by semipermeable paneling.
One section was adjusted to the midtemperate zone climate most favored by humans, while the area farthest from the door was almost misted over from the heat and humidity favored by the thranx. The eating area in between was by far the largest. Here the two environments blended imperfectly, to form a climate a touch warm and damp for humans, slightly dry and cool to the thranx, yet suitable to both. All three areas were crowded.
He was thankful for the presence of several humans and thranx who wore something other than the Church color; it made him feel considerably less conspicuous.
The smells of recently prepared food were everywhere. While a few of the aromas were exotic, they couldn’t compete with the incredible variety of odors always present in the marketplace in Drallar. Even so, he found himself salivating. He had had nothing to eat since his brief breakfast in the city early that morning.
A short time after placing his order with the auto-chef he was rewarded with a flavorful steak of uncertain origin and an assortment of breads and vegetables. But when he inquired again about the rest of his order, a small screen lit up: No intoxicants of any sort, however mild, are permitted in Depot commissaries.
Flinx swallowed his disappointment—a poor substitute for the beer he had ordered—and settled for iced shaka.
Pip was curled about his shoulder once again. The flying snake had aroused a few comments but not fear. The creatures in the facility—they ranged in age from less than his own to elders well over a hundred—were peculiarly indifferent to the possibility of the minidrag suddenly spewing corrosive death.
Flinx took a seat by himself. His ears were no larger than normal, and his talent no sharper than usual, but his hearing was well trained. To survive in Drallar, one had to utilize all one’s senses to the utmost. Listening to the conversation around him in the food service facility, they served to satiate his curiosity.
To his left a pair of elderly thranx were arguing over the validity of performing genetic manipulation with unhatched eggs. It had something to do with the scorm process as opposed to the oppordian method, and there was much talk of the morality of inducing mutation by prenatal suggestion in unformed pupae.
Hunting for something less incomprehensible, he overheard an old woman with two cream-colored stripes on her suit sleeve lecturing a group of acolytes: two human, two thranx. A hydrogen atom was emblazoned above the stripes.
“So you see, if you check the research which has been performed on Pluto, Gorisa, and Tipendemos over the last eight years, you’ll find that any additional modifications to the SCCAM weapons system must take into account the stress limitations of the osmiridium casing itself.”
A bite of bread and yet another wisp of conversation, this from a middle-aged man behind him with a lush white beard: “Production levels on Kansastan and Inter-Kansastan in the Bryan Sector suggest that with proper preatmospheric seeding, food grain production can be increased as much as twenty percent over the next three planting years.”
Flinx frowned as he considered this intense babble, but it wasn’t the absence of theology in the discussions that troubled him. He really couldn’t judge, but even to his untrained ears it seemed that a lot of very sensitive matters were being freely discussed in the presence of non-Church personnel. Whether that proved the Church was inefficient or only typically humanx he could not decide. Though security wasn’t his problem, it troubled him nonetheless as he finished his meal.
He was still troubled the following morning, as he made his way back to the desk in the entrance chamber. Mona Tantivy was on duty, and she smiled when she saw him approach. Traffic was moving briskly through the chamber now as Church personnel bustled from one corridor to another and through the double-glass entranceway.
“Ready?” she asked.
“I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible,” he said, in a sharper tone than he intended. Flinx, aware he was trembling slightly, resolutely calmed himself.
The woman pursed her lips reprovingly. “Don’t act as if you’re going to be inoculated or something.”
“In a sense that’s just how I feel,” he replied grimly.
And it was. Flinx had grown up with a deficient image of self. If he found no remedy here, he would likely carry that cross with him forever.
The woman nodded slowly, pressed a switch. A few minutes later a fortyish human with a build like a wrestler came out of the near corridor. His smile was identical to Tantivy’s, and he projected the same desire to aid and be helpful. Flinx wondered if this attitude was natural or if that, too, was part of the Church course of instruction: Advanced Personality Manipulation through Traditional Facial Gesticulation—or something similar.
Angrily Flinx thrust his instinctive sarcasm aside. All that mattered was seeing what he had come for.
“My name’s Namoto,” the blocky oriental said, introducing himself with smile and handshake. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Lynx.”
Flinx put up a restraining hand. “Let’s not call me that until we prove it. Just Flinx, please.”
The smile didn’t fade. “All right, whoever you be. Come with me and we’ll see if we can find out who you are.”
After what seemed like twenty minutes of walking through hallways and featureless corridors, Flinx was thoroughly disoriented. “It’s hard to believe that the Church records of every human being in the Commonwealth . . .”
“. . . and of every thranx,” Namoto finished for him, “are all stored in this small building, but it is true. Information storage is a thousand-year-old science, Flinx. The art of document reduction has been developed to a high degree. Most of the records in this building would be invisible under a standard microscope. Our scanners and imprinters work with much finer resolutions.” He paused before a door that looked no different from a hundred already passed.
“We’re here.”
The single word engraved in the translucent door said simply, Genealogy. Behind this door were the early histories of billions of humanx lives—though not all of them. There were still those who did not wish to be documented by anything other than their own epitaph, and a few of them achieved this.
On the other hand, Flinx had been undocumented his whole life, and he was tired of it.
“There could be a large number of Philip Lynxes still alive,” Namoto suggested as he keyed the door, “although because of certain colloquial sociological connotations, it is a less common name than many.”
“I know what it means,” Flinx snapped. Pip shifted uneasily on his master’s shoulder at the sudden flare of mental violence.
The room was enormous. Mostly it consisted of seemingly endless aisles alternating with rows of enclosed metal that stretched from floor to ceiling. No row appeared different from its neighbor.
Flinx was led to a row of ten booths. Two were occupied by researchers, the rest were empty. Namoto sat down before the single large screen in the walled booth and gestured for Flinx to sit next to him. Then be pressed both thumbs to a pair of hollows set in the screen’s side.
A light winked on beneath them and the screen lit up. Namoto leaned forward, said, “My name is Shigeta Namoto.” He relaxed. There was a pause; the machine hummed, and a green light winked on above the screen’s center.
“You are recognized, Padre Namoto,” the machine intoned. “Awaiting requests.”
“Report results of previous night’s search on one human male named Lynx, Philip. Hold alternate spellings till directed.” He turned, whispered to Flinx, “For a start we’ll assume the name on the slaver’s record was correct.”
“Possible place of origin,” he told the machine, “Allahabad, India Province, Terra.” The Padre looked over at his anxious companion. “How old are you . . . or do you know?”
“Mother Mastiff tells me I should be
about seventeen, though she can’t be sure. Sometimes I feel like I’m seven hundred.”
“And sometimes I feel like I’m seven,” the massive Churchman countered pleasantly, returning his attention to the machine.
“Age approximation noted,” the device stated. “Results of search appear.”
Namoto studied the list. “I was right . . . it’s not a common name. There are records of only three Philip Lynxes having been born and registered at Allahabad within the last half century. Only one of them fits your age bracket.” He addressed the machine once more.
“Further information desired.”
There was a brief hum, then the screen lit brightly with the legend: transferring allahabad terminal. Then a moment later: transfer completed . . . code length.
Namoto gazed at the numbers following. “Doesn’t seem to be much information at all. I hope it’s worth . . .” He paused, suddenly concerned. “Are you all right, Flinx? You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine . . . it’s a lot cooler in here than outside, that’s all. Hurry up.”
Namoto nodded. “Decode transfer.”
Flinx’s hands tightened convulsively on his thighs as each word was printed out.
LYNX PHILIP . . . TRUE NAME . . . BORN 533 A.A, 2933 OLD CALENDAR IN THE SUBURB OF SARNATH, GREATER URBAN ALLAHABAD, INDIA PROVINCE, TERRA.
There was a pause during which nothing further appeared on the screen. Flinx turned to Namoto, almost shouting.
“Is that all?”
“Gentle, Flinx . . . see, more comes.” And the printout continued again.
NOTES ADDITIONAL: RECORDS OF ASSISTING SEMI-PHYSICIAN AND MONITORING MEDITECH INDICATE PRESENCE OF UNUSUALLY HIGH BIRTH AURA IN R-WAVE MATERNITY CHAMBER READINGS . . . NO UNUSUAL OR ADVERSE REACTION FROM MOTHER . . . R-WAVE READOUTS INDICATE POTENTIAL OF POSSIBLE ABNORMAL TALENTS, CLASS ONE . . .
DELIVERY NORMAL . . . NO R-WAVE REACTION ASCRIBABLE TO TRAUMA . . . MONITORS POSTOPERATIVE CHECK NORMAL . . . INFANT OTHERWISE NORMAL AND HEALTHY . . .
MOTHER AGED 22 . . . NAME : ANASAGE . . . GRANDPARENTS UNKNOWN. . . .
Namoto did not look at Flinx as the readout concluded: father unknown, not present at birthing. . . .
Flinx fought to relax. Now that this ordeal was over he wondered at his tension. What information there was told him little—and as for the last, well, he had been called a bastard before and far worse than that. But all this new information still did not tell him if Lynx was a lineal name, or one applied solely to him at birth. Without that—or additional information—he might as well not have bothered.
“Any information,” he asked in a soft monotone, “on the postdelivery status of the . . .” the word came surprisingly easy now, “mother?”
Namoto requested it of the machine. The reply was short, eloquent.
MOTHER DECEASED . . . OFF-PLANET, 537 A.A . . . ADDITIONAL DETAIL AVAILABLE. . . .
“Explain the . . .” Flinx began, but Namoto hushed him.
“Just a minute, Philip.”
Pip stirred nervously as his master bristled in reaction.
“Don’t call me that. It’s Flinx, just Flinx.”
“Grant me the minute anyhow.” Namoto used a small keyboard to instruct the machine manually. There was a low whine from sealed depths. A tiny wheel of millimeter-wide tape, so narrow as to be almost invisible, was ejected from an almost invisible slot. At the same time the screen lit for the last time.
PRINTOUT OF DELIVERED INFORMATION ACCOMPLISHED . . . SECONDARY INFORMATION WITHDRAWN TEN STANDARD MONTHS TWO WEEKS FOUR DAYS PRIOR THIS DATE. . . .
Namoto’s gaze narrowed. “Someone’s been tampering with your file, all right.” To the machine, “Identify withdrawing authority.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY . . . AUTHORITY WITHDRAWN IMMEDIATELY SUBSEQUENT TO INFORMATION WITHDRAWN. . . .
“Neat,” was all Namoto said. “Your acquaintance wanted to make certain no one else had access to whatever information he stole.”
A red-tinged image grew in his mind—Challis! The merchant had fooled him even at the point of imagined death. He had confessed to the Flinx simulacrum where he had obtained his information on Flinx, without finding it necessary to add that the critical information was no longer there.
What he had left in the Church archives was just enough to satisfy any casual inspector and to prevent any cancellation alarms from being activated.
And Flinx doubted that Challis was awaiting his return back in the capital. So he would have to start his hunt all over again—with no hint of where the merchant had fled to this time. A quiet voice nearby was speaking to him.
Namoto had keyed the machine release and was offering him the tape. “Here’s a copy of what the thief left in the archive.” Flinx took it, his movements slow and stunned. “I’m sorry about the rest, whatever it consists of. I suspect if you want to know the contents you’re going to have to find your acquaintance again and ask him some direct questions. And when you do, I’d appreciate it if you’d contact the nearest Church authorities.” The padre was not smiling. “Theft of Church records is a rather serious offense.”
“This tape—and the one that was stolen—is a many-times-enlarged duplicate of the archive original. Any microscopic scanner will play it back.” He rose. “If you want to see it again use the machine in the booth two alcoves over. I’ll be at the monitor’s desk if you want me for anything.”
Flinx nodded slowly as the padre turned, walked away.
Challis! Thief, would-be murderer, casual destroyer of other’s lives—next time he might let Pip kill him. The Commonwealth would be a little cleaner for the absence of . . . Something burned his shoulder and nearly yanked him from the chair.
Pip had all but exploded from his shoulder perch, fast enough to mark the skin beneath Flinx’s jumpsuit. Fumbling the cassette into a pocket, he scrambled to his feet and raced down the aisle after his panicked pet.
“Pip . . . wait . . . there’s nothing wrong . . . !”
The minidrag had already reached the entrance. Both Namoto and the monitor on duty had moved away from the desk. They were watching the snake warily while backing slowly away. The minidrag beat at the translucent plexite for a moment as Flinx rushed from the booth aisle. He was calling to the reptile verbally and mentally, praying that the snake would relax before someone, gentle and understanding or not, took a shot at him.
The minidrag backed off, fluttering and twisting in the air, and spat once. A loud hissing sound, and a large irregular hole appeared in the door. Flinx made a desperate grab for the receding tail, but too late—the elusive reptile had already squeezed through the aperture.
“Open the door,” he yelled, “I’ve got to go after him!”
The attendant stood paralyzed until Namoto murmured tensely, “Open the door, Yena.”
Yena moved rapidly then. “Yes, sir—should I sound an alarm?”
Namoto looked to Flinx, who was ready to rip the door from its glide. “Pip wouldn’t hurt anyone unless he sensed a threat to me.”
“Then what’s the matter with him?” the padre asked as the door slid back. Flinx plunged through, the padre close behind.
“I don’t know . . . there he goes! Pip . . . !”
The curling tail was just vanishing around a bend in the corridor. Flinx plunged after.
In the twists and turns of the labyrinthine building, Flinx occasionally lost sight of his pet. But ashen-faced human personnel and thranx with uncontrollably shivering antennae marked the minidrag’s path as clearly as a trail of crimson lacquer. Despite his bulk, Padre Namoto remained close behind Flinx.
It felt as if they had run around kilometers of corners before they finally caught up with the minidrag. Pip was beating leathery wings against another doorway, much larger than any Flinx had seen so far.
Only this time there was more than a single studious monitor in attendance. Two men wearing aquamarine uniforms were crouched behind a flanking tubular barrier. Each had a small beamer trained on the flutte
ring minidrag. Flinx could see a small knot of Church personnel huddled expectantly at the far end of the corridor.
“Don’t shoot!” he howled frantically. “He won’t hurt anyone!” Slowing, he moved closer to his pet. But Pip refused every summons, remaining resolutely out of grabbing range as he continued to beat at the doors.
“Whatever’s berserked him is on the other side.” He called to the two armed men. “Let him through.”
“That’s a restricted area, boy,” one of them said, trying to divide his attention between the flying snake and this new arrival.
“Let us through,” a slightly winded Namoto ordered, moving out where he could be seen clearly. The guard’s voice turned respectful.
“Sorry, Padre, we didn’t know you were in charge of this.”
“I’m not, the snake is. But open the doors anyway. My authority.”
Flinx had barely a minute to wonder exactly how important his helpful guide was before the surprisingly thick double doors started to separate. Pip squeezed through the minimal opening and an impatient Flinx had to wait another moment before the gap was wide enough to admit him.
Then he was on the other side, which proved to be a corridor no different from any of the many he had already traversed.
Except . . .
Except for the bank of six lifts before him. Two padre-elects were waiting in front of the lift at far left. One was a very old, tall, and oddly deformed human. He stood next to a young female thranx.
Pip was hovering in midair as Flinx and Namoto slipped into the corridor. Then he suddenly dived at the couple, completely ignoring the other Church personnel who were beginning to notice the presence of the venomous reptile in their midst.
“Call him off, Flinx,” Namoto ordered. There was no hint of obsequiousness in his voice now. He had his beamer out and aimed.
Flinx suddenly sensed what had pulled so strongly at his pet. As Pip dove, the bent old man ducked and dodged with shocking agility, fairly throwing his young companion against the lift door. She twisted herself as she was shoved. It was sufficient to prevent a nasty break, but too weak to keep her from slamming hard into the unyielding metal. Shiny blue-green legs collapsed and she folded up against the door.