He reached for the half-open dresser drawer and his bolo tie. His hand paused, hovering over the small jewelry box, then retreated. Turning, he picked up the phone and cupped the receiver to his ear. For a long moment he stood there. Then, with the same forcefulness with which he’d pulled his hand away from the drawer, he dialed the eighty-fourth floor of the Selvern Tower.
A voice and face responded, and he thought to shut off the video portion of the call. Not that the reception computer would make much of his face. Hundreds worked on his floor.
But why the reflex action, he thought? I’ve nothing to feel guilty about. Reflex action.
Eric had more accumulated sick leave than anyone else in his department, but he still felt guilty.
“Can I help you?" the voice asked pleasantly.
“This is Eric Abbott, Design, employee ID 589433-D. I’m feeling kind of lousy this morning.” He could imagine the surprise on the faces of his co-workers. Old Eric’s human after all, they’d say. Then they’d wonder what had finally struck him down. Flu would be the best guess. There was a lot of influenza in the Valley of the Sun this time of year.
“I won’t be in today,” he hurried to add before he could change his mind. “Touch of something, got a low fever. Some kind of bug that’s going round.”
“Very good, Mr. Abbott,” said the computer politely. It did not render moral, muoh less medical, judgments. “Do you wish any of your work sent out to you?”
“Yes. Yeah, sure.” He shouldn’t pretend to be seriously ill or they’d insist on a checkup with the company doctor before he could return to work.
“Code please?”
He punched his work code into the phone. There was a pause, then the wall terminal out in his bedroom came alive, signaling incoming information.
It took only a couple of minutes for the work transfer to be completed. “Thanks,” he told the computer.
“Excuse me, Mr. Abbott, but do you have any idea when you’ll be able to return to the office?”
“Not yet. I’m going to phone in my symptoms later this afternoon and try to get a diagnosis and prescription.”
“Very well. I hope you’re feeling better tomorrow.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it," said Eric, relieved when the line disconnected.
There. I did it. I really went and did it. Surprising how easy it was. Surely they wouldn’t check up on him. Not with his sterling work record. A few days off should go unnoticed.
The light on the terminal continued to wink at him, requesting his attention. He ignored the input from his office, since he had no intention of sitting down at the desk and doing a day’s work. Not only were other things foremost in his thoughts; it was clear he’d be unable to concentrate on work or anything else until he rid himself of this …
Be honest with yourself, man.
… obsession.
It shouldn’t take too long. Charlie had already pointed out the futility of trying to find the girl. A dead end would send him straight back to work. He walked into the bedroom and sat thoughtfully on the edge of the bed. He was perceptive and intelligent, but the nearest he’d ever come to having to deal with this kind of situation was when he sat with friends trying to puzzle out an opto play.
All he had was the make of the car the girl had been riding in and its ID. So the first step would be to trace the car and find out who owned it. The limo could also have been rented.
The local Board of Transportation would know. The police would be able to find out. Neither would be likely to volunteer such information to an ordinary citizen. In fact, the police would probably give him more grief than information.
How did it work in fiction and on the opto? He sat down at the desk in front of the terminal. After checking to make sure the transferred work had been put in hard storage, he called up Phoenix Area Information.
There was quite a long list under INVESTIGATER, PRIVATE. How to choose a reputable firm? He doubted the police were allowed to make recommendations.
Anything that had an Inc. or Ltd. after it suggested a large concern with many employees. Those he skipped over. He wanted personal attention. There was also the fear that they might not take him seriously.
Well down the list was an entry that promised “Private, Discreet, Dependable Service, No Job Too Obscure, Bonded, Twenty Years in the Valley of the Sun."
And a name, Polikartos, and a phone number. He recorded it. The yellow pages vanished and the number and name clung to the bottom of the screen. With slow deliberation he dialed the number.
I’m really doing this, he told himself. How extraordinary. Hurry and answer, hurry and let’s get on with this and get it over with.
“This is Polikartos," said a voice at the other end. Answers the phone himself, Eric thought. Could be good, could be bad. He wondered suddenly if Polikartos was a first or last name. Not that it mattered. He noted that the video was off.
“My name is Eric Abbott, Mr. Polikartos. I guess I’d like to engage your services.”
“You guess?” Video opened and Eric found himself staring at an older man seated behind a narrow desk. The man was neat and clean-shaven, though his five-o’clock shadow was heavy even against his dark skin. Behind him was a small, out-of-focus office. From what Eric could see it was uncluttered and compact.
"Well, which is it to be, Mr. Abbott? Do you want to hire me or do you want to keep guessing?”
“Sorry.” Knowing that the other man was studying him, he tried to appear more confident than he felt. “I do want to hire you. Uh, what are your rates?"
“Depends on what you want me for.”
Idiot, Eric told himself. This wasn’t going well. “I need you to find someone for me.”
The man nodded, looked bored. "Right. Do you have any information?"
“Just an automobile make—a Cadota—and license number."
“That’s all?” Eric nodded. “I can’t promise anything on the basis of that. Even a computer needs something to work with.”
“I know. All I expect is for you to do your best.”
