And again only the message, “Go to Sublevel Six, Booth B.”
Had he finally triggered an alarm of some kind? Were they trying to ease him out of this busy public corridor so they could hustle him out of sight unseen by witnessing eyes?
What else could it be? Surely the machine wouldn’t say blithely, “Go to Sublevel Six, Booth B, where there is a trap waiting for you and we may arrest you in peace and quiet.” But that was the effect of its reply. And that made no sense either.
Stalling, he entered, “Does this relate to my query as to the whereabouts of Lisa Tambor?” The machine replied with commendable brevity.
“It does.”
Rising, he removed his credit card. Perhaps they hadn’t noted the newest change yet. He left the booth. No one watched him return to the elevator bay. Even as he entered the first available lift he was unsure how to proceed. He could request street level and vanish back into the rush of early-morning Manhattan, or he could follow the machine’s seemingly innocent instructions.
His hand hovered over the controls and almost compulsively demanded Sublevel Six. The car rose quietly as he tried to decide if he should change his mind and redirect it.
He was as tense as he’d been all night when the doors parted. No ranks of heavily armed police waited to greet him. Instead he found himself on a busy, round-the-clock service floor. For a wild moment it was as if he was back in Phoenix, emerging onto any of a number of similarly laid-out floors in the Selvern Tower.
Ahead stretched a broad, carpeted corridor. The vast room was divided by modular cubicles, movable walls some two meters high. Within, people worked busily at soundproofed machines.
Since no one appeared to question his presence, he walked idly down the corridor. In one large cubicle he saw several people working with a large screen a meter and a half square. It was built into the floor. They would move long light pens over the vitreous surface while arguing in low voices about respective entries. Some of the cubicles contained consoles akin to the one he’d just utilized four floors below.
As he stood gazing, somebody’s grandmother came up and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. She had lovely green eyes and spoke with the voice of authority.
“Can I help you, young man?”
He tried to put something like a smile on his face. “Excuse me. I’ve had a rough night.”
“You certainly look it.” She studied him closely. “Where are you supposed to be? I don’t believe you belong to my section.”
“I don’t belong to anybody’s section. I’m a civilian.” Why did he think he could trust this woman? He rushed on. “I just came up from SL Ten.”
“Oh, a citizen. That doesn’t tell me what you’re doing up here. We have no public facilities on this level.”
“I put my request to a public booth and it told me to come up here. Sublevel Six, Booth B.”
Her brows drew together. “Booth B. Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am.” As they conversed politely he was ready to bolt and run.
“Well, we can check that quick enough.”
He followed her down the corridor and through several branching aisles. Unlike the modular cubicles surrounding it, Booth B turned out to be fully enclosed. Only two other similarly secure stations were visible. One was occupied. The walls of the booth were solid and opaque. A tiny console was built into the entrance.
“Enter the query you used to obtain your final instructions,” the woman directed him. Eric used the console. The miniature screen lit up with the single word ADMIT.
The older woman shrugged, eyed him oddly. “So you do belong here. I wonder what your question was?” She’d been too polite to peek. “It must have been important. Only very important inquiries are referred up here.” She gave a little shrug. Eric wanted to ask her what she was baking.
“None of my business, of course.” She gestured to her right. “If you need any help, there are advanced tech people present to assist you.”
“Thanks. I’ll manage.” He smiled gratefully, entered, and listened to the door lock automatically behind him. The console and display were identical to the one he’d used below. A little more modern in design, perhaps, a little sleeker, slightly less proletarian. Taking a seat, he entered the same queries as before, adding the reference number of the Sublevel Ten cubicle which had sent him upstairs.
“Hello,” said a smooth voice. He jumped a little in spite of himself, stared at the console where he’d shut off the audio. Or thought he had.
“Yes, I know you’ve shut off the audio,” said the voice. “Please do not be alarmed. This booth contains independent audio-video facilities. I feel it is better to dispense with the time-consuming process of keyboard entry and retrieval.”
“Who is this? Who am I talking to?”
“I should think you might have guessed. I know who you are. You are Eric Abbott.”
“Just a minute, that’s wrong. You saw the name on my credit card. It’s Mark Curtis.”
“Please do not waste our time with futile denials, Mr. Abbott,” said the voice calmly. If it was a machine voice, Eric thought furiously, it was beautifully processed. “You are a fine technician, but your work is not perfect. You have insufficient experience in illegal modification.” Was that a hint of dry humor there?
“Who is this? Security? City authorities?”
“No indeed. This is the voice of Colligatarch Central.”
“What? From Switzerland?”
“Yes. I am conversing with you via satellite relay.”
Eric sat back in his chair. As an engineer and designer, he held even more respect for the Colligatarch Authority than the average citizen. To find himself addressing the central core of that globe-girdling network was sufficiently overpowering to make him forget for a few moments the troubles which had brought him to this place.
“I don’t see why you should be interested in my query. I’m just trying to find a woman.”
“But I am interested, for reasons of my own.”
“Don’t you always have reasons of your own?”
“You have a sense of humor. That’s good.” Then, quite out of the blue, “Where were you born?”
