Colin Kapp - Transfinite Man

ONE

Failway Terminal cut across the old sector of the city like an ugly red house-brick thrown by a vandal on to a Lilliputian town. Almost a square mile of the old town had been obliterated to make room for the monstrous hundred-storied hulk of architectural impotence which was the Terminal building. Streets and parks alike ended with a plaintive suddenness short of this monumental reminder that money can buy anything. Its shadow secured a shroud of almost permanent gloom across the tenements still cringing between it and the river. Failway Terminal, thought Ivan Dalroi, was a headache from any point of view.

A ground-cab set him down at the main entrance, and he lingered for a while watching the faces of the trippers and the sensation seekers who flocked to the Terminal in search of the pleasures only Failway could provide. The sight made him slightly sick. Failway was strictly impartial: the customers got what they paid for pleasures simple, exciting, exotic or erotic according to their wishes. The trouble was that people tended to graduate ...

The girl at the reception desk took his card and scanned it with disfavour.

"You have an appointment?"

"No," said Dalroi. "Only people who expect to live a long time make appointments. I want to speak to Peter Madden."

"Would you care to state the nature of your business?"

"Right now it hasn't got a name, but unless I get a few good answers I shall probably call it murder."

The girl dialled a number and spoke briefly into an acoustic chamber. Then she turned back to Dalroi.

"Mr. Madden was expecting you to call. He will see you immediately."

Dalroi scowled. Only a selected few knew he was planning a visit to Failway Terminal. Only one other person knew his purpose. Somebody was guessing, or ... A sudden stab of panic clawed at his vitals and he rejected it savagely.

Peter Madden was a mild-seeming man with a careful, suave calm born more of rigid self-discipline than inner content. The man's balance and control was almost perfect, thought Dalroi, but the tell-tale top line frown betrayed the power and the conflict locked within the skull. Peter Madden was not a man to be crossed lightly.

"Failway Public Relations at your disposal, Mr. Dalroi. We aim to serve you."

"I doubt it!" said Dalroi. "I'm not exactly increasing the good-will of the establishment."

Madden looked him firmly in the eyes, a slight smile on his lips, and motioned him into a chair. "Knowing your reputation for trouble, I take it this isn't a social visit?"

"If you were expecting me, you know damn well it isn't. For the record I'll pretend you don't know who I am or why I'm here." He searched carefully around the room for the concealed microphones he knew were recording every word he spoke. "I'm a private investigator working on behalf of Baron Cronstadt and the Cronstadt committee. Four weeks ago three members of the committee visited Failway on a fact-finding tour. I know they went in because I watched them. They never came out again."

"That's a sweeping statement," said Madden gently. "You don't suppose we lose people in Failway, do you?"

"I do mean just that."

"It's scarcely policy, Mr. Dalroi. Failway is devoted to offering patrons whatever they choose to seek. If they came looking for facts, I have no doubt they found them."

"And if they came looking for trouble?" asked Dalroi. "Let's stop fencing, Mr. Madden. The Cronstadt committee is out to break the Failway monopoly. The fact that three members don't return after a Failway visit is highly suggestive of a little foul play. I'd be interested to hear your explanation."

Madden laughed quietly. "My dear Dalroi, we're not afraid of the Cronstadt committee, and we've nothing to hide. There've always been cranks against Failway and there always will be it's part of the cross we bear for being in advance of the times. Why should we trouble ourselves with the maunderings of three old men?"

Dalroi looked up. "Who said they were old?"

Peter Madden spread his hands. "Prohibition is an old man's occupation. Do you mind if I offer you a little advice, Mr. Dalroi?"

"Call me Ivan," said Dalroi insolently. "It sounds less formal."

Madden controlled himself. "Very well Ivan. I advise you to drop this case. You've a big reputation as an investigator. I suggest you wouldn't want to ruin it by starting something you have no hope of finishing."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, simply a prediction."

"Then your crystal ball is tuned in to the wrong channel. I've never yet walked out on a case."

"Not even when the price was right?" Madden watched him closely.

"No," said Dalroi, "not even then. First of all a man has to live with himself. Besides which, I have a personal score to settle with Failway."

Madden fingered a file of papers on his desk then pushed it aside with a hint of impatience. "I was afraid of that," he said. "I don't suppose it does any good to repeat that you have no chance at all of succeeding?"

"No," said Dalroi. "Win or lose, there isn't enough room for Dalroi and Failway to live together. One of us is going to have to go."

"At least we reach a point of complete agreement," said Madden quietly.

He stood up to signify that the interview was at an end. Dalroi rose also, puzzled by a curious undercurrent in the P.R.O.'s manner. Madden showed him out with the usual courtesies and a final handshake. As their hands clutched, Dalroi became aware that a piece of folded paper was being pressed into his palm. A glance at Madden's eyes cautioned him to silence. He trapped the paper deftly beneath his thumb, and set off down the corridor without once looking back.

He was deep in the heart of the old town before he slipped the note carefully into his pocket. Glancing round to make sure he was not being followed, he entered Mortimer's caf-bar and went straight to the telephone. This was a tactical move. Mortimer saw him enter and nodded to the boy to watch the door. Dalroi and Mortimer had a mutual pact to protect each other's right to privacy, a remnant of the old gang-fights of their youth.

The note read:

FAILWAY G2. 12:00 MUST SPEAK. MADDEN.

Dalroi frowned. Failway G.2, was the heavy goods entrance on the river side of the Terminal. It was situated in the wharfing area in the toughest and most vicious district of the old town. Dalroi knew. He had spent his youth in the shadows of the brothels and bars around the mouldering wharves. That scar on his forehead was no accident.

He dropped some coins into the meter and dialled his office. Zdenka, his secretary, answered the phone.

"Dalroi here, Zen. Anything new come in for me?"

"Nothing unless you count the gas bill."

"File it," said Dalroi. "Under miscellaneous. Look, I want you to get on to our police contacts and see if you can get information on any unidentified bodies found in this area in the last four weeks. I'm specifically interested in three, male, in the fifty to sixty-five age group."

"That sounds ominously like the members of the fact-finding party who went into Failway."

"Precisely," said Dalroi. "I'm tempted to wonder if I've been looking for them in the wrong place. Something's very curious about this whole affair. There's a hell of an undercurrent behind everything."

"Speaking of undercurrents," Zdenka said, "somebody named Dutt was on the phone."

"How long ago?"

"Thirty seconds, perhaps."

"Right!" said Dalroi. "You can go home if you want to. I shall probably be late."

He broke the connection hastily. He knew nobody named Dutt. The message was a prearranged code. DUTT ... Don't Use The Telephone. It meant that the personal-privacy meter in the office had detected a wire-tap on the line. His interest in Failway had somebody worried, and that somebody was going to a great deal of trouble to keep informed of his movements. Things were beginning to warm up.