document: DELAY IN TRANSIT
   
   
   By F. L. WALLACE
   
   Illustrated by SIBLEY
   
   [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
   
   
   An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!
   
  
   
   "Muscles tense," said Dimanche. "Neural index 1.76, unusually high. Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you. Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon."
   
   "Not interested," said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudible to anyone but Dimanche. "I'm not the victim type. He was standing on the walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to the habitat hotel and sit tight."
   
   "First you have to get there," Dimanche pointed out. "I mean, is it safe for a stranger to walk through the city?"
   
   "Now that you mention it, no," answered Cassal. He looked around apprehensively. "Where is he?"
   
   
  
   
   "Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandise display."
   
   A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he was accustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's apple bobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that all travelers were crazy.
   
   Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk. It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?
   
   A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it was peculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian was at a definite disadvantage.
   
   "Correction," said Dimanche. "Not simple assault. He has murder in mind."
   
   "It still doesn't appeal to me," said Cassal. Striving to look unconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway and stared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside, he might find safety for a time.
   
   Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to elude him in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour the streets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human would consider it dim.
   
   "Why did he choose me?" asked Cassal plaintively. "There must be something he hopes to gain."
   
   "I'm working on it," said Dimanche. "But remember, I have limitations. At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpret physiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is report what a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested in finding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problem over to the godawful police."
   
   "Godolph, not godawful," corrected Cassal absently.
   
   That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could give the police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were various reasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device called Dimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own, say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem the proper approach, either.
   
   "Weapons?"
   
   "The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A long knife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person."
   
   Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course in semantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man could die from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure of protection himself.
   
   "Report," said Dimanche. "Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, on tenuous evidence."
   
   "Let's have it anyway."
   
   "His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. For some reason you can't get off this planet."
   
   That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousand star systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.
   
   Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was a transfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When he had left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here. He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn't unusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not as reliable as they might be.
   
   Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected with that delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He was self-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't?
   
   
  
   
   Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself. He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matched to his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On the basis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a long journey, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to go to Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save the company that employed him, and possibly not even to them.
   
   The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, his mission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And money wasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did the thug want?
   
   Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that was too well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, for anyone this far away to have learned about it.
   
   And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good as dead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn't involve too much risk.
   
   "Better start moving." That was Dimanche. "He's getting suspicious."
   
   Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side of that boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usually was on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the natives like rain.
   
   He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled the rain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through it unhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibility and the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and the near amphibians who created it.
   
   A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transport tide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that made life dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in a faster-than-light age.
   
   Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitely flexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, the ribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughout the city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftly and noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered. If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. No investigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him had certainly picked the right place.
   
   The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassal was almost positive she muttered a polite "Arf?" as she sloshed by. What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out.
   
   "Follow her," instructed Dimanche. "We've got to investigate our man at closer range."
   
   
  
   
   Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractive in an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not graceful out of her element, though.
   
   The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassal retraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow, physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do with it. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. A scientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder.
   
   "Nothing," said Dimanche disgustedly. "His mind froze when we got close. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed. Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans. That makes the knife definite."
   
   Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassal stopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter.
   
   "Excellent thinking," commended Dimanche. "He won't attempt anything on this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next deserted intersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette."
   
   The lighter flared in his hand. "That's one way of finding out," said Cassal. "But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated on getting back to the hotel?"
   
   "I'm curious. Turn here."
   
   "Go to hell," said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to that intersection, he turned there.
   
   It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oily slow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming on the other.
   
   He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was all very well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there was also the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, an electronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that.
   
   "Easy," warned Dimanche. "He's at the entrance to the alley, walking fast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route."
   
   "I'm surprised, too," remarked Cassal. "But I wouldn't say I'm pleased. Not just now."
   
   "Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting." The mechanism concealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:
  "His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time like this, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This is critical."
   
   "That's no lie," agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand. He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darkness assumed an even more sinister quality.
   
   "Quiet," said Dimanche. "He's verbalizing about you."
   
   "He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and ask me for a light."
   
   "I don't think so," answered Dimanche. "He's whispering: 'Poor devil. I hate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'."
   
   "He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn't there any clue?"
   
   "None at all," admitted Dimanche. "He's very close. You'd better turn around."
   
   
  
   
   Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made him feel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little.
   
   A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of the alley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailant shot by.
   
   "Hey!" shouted Cassal.
   
   Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feeling that no one was going to come to his assistance.
   
   "He wasn't expecting that reaction," explained Dimanche. "That's why he missed. He's turned around and is coming back."
   
   "I'm armed!" shouted Cassal.
   
   "That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you."
   
   Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a few seconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projected stiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgical instrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered its function, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto.
   
   "Twenty feet away," advised Dimanche. "He knows you can't see him, but he can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare. What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keep you posted below the level of his hearing."
   
   "Stay on him," growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself against the wall.
   
   "To the right," whispered Dimanche. "Lunge forward. About five feet. Low."
   
   Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects of a miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately, his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance, the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. His opponent gasped and broke away.
   
   "Attack!" howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. "You've got him. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He's afraid."
   
   Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; some didn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponent fell to the ground, gasped and was silent.
   
   Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay near the water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn't move.
   
   "Heartbeat slow," said Dimanche solemnly. "Breathing barely perceptible."
   
   "Then he's not dead," said Cassal in relief.
   
   Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozed from cuts on the face.
   
   "Respiration none, heartbeat absent," stated Dimanche.
   
   
  
   
   Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, but would the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have to investigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they would question him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but what could he do about it?
   
   Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney
  21?
   
   Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom of this. Why had the man attacked? What did he want?
   
   "I don't know," replied Dimanche irritably. "I can interpret body data—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat."
   
   Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articles of no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amount of money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. A picture of a woman and a small child posed against a background which resembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all.
   
   Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemed to be no connection between this dead man and his own problem of getting to Tunney 21.
   
   Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward the boulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence.
   
   He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him. Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainly trying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as he was forced to the ground.
   
   He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footsteps rushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escaping by way of water.
   
   Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer in sight.
   
   "Interpret body data, do you?" muttered Cassal. "Liveliest dead man I've ever been strangled by."
   
   "It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control the basic functions of their body," said Dimanche defensively. "When I checked him, he had no heartbeat."
   
   "Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely," grunted Cassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to the police.
   
   He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the second time he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he was successful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. He squeezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away.
   
   Something, however, was missing—his wallet.
   
   The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle. Persistent fellow. Damned persistent.
   
   It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from the supposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police. Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. It contained more money than his wallet had.
   
   Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, it was more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular piece of plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money he now had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send for another tab.
   
   A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell. Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word, STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried.
   
   
  
   
   The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobbling precariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on the door disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. The technician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formed on the door.
   
   
   TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor
   
   It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. The old technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again.
   
   With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He needed help and he had to find it in this dingy rathole.
   
   Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like a maze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable. Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually he managed to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms.
   
   A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. "Please answer everything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll be available for consultation."
   
   Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. "Is this necessary?" he asked. "It's merely a matter of information."
   
   "We have certain regulations we abide by." The woman smiled frostily.
  "I can't give you any information until you comply with them."
   
   "Sometimes regulations are silly," said Cassal firmly. "Let me speak to the first counselor."
   
   "You are speaking to her," she said. Her face disappeared from the screen.
   
   Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression.
   
   Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantly supplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him, Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had of him. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions and answers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney
  21 was his own business.
   
   The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed, that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average, rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at the chin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman.
   
   
  
   
   She glanced down at the data. "Denton Cassal, native of Earth. Destination, Tunney 21." She looked up at him. "Occupation, sales engineer. Isn't that an odd combination?" Her smile was quite superior.
   
   "Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge of customer relations."
   
   "Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient." Her eyebrows arched.
   
   "I think so," he agreed blandly. "Anything else you'd like to know?"
   
   "Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."
   
   He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't.
   
   "You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I can guess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to study under them."
   
   Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though not necessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they could build Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was even less likely.
   
   There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21 that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studies that had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, he could help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company that could build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lag could set its own price, which could be control of all communications, transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut of all that.
   
   His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcher to come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess the Tunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition, the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by their arrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be working for ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument as Dimanche was a key factor.
   
   Her voice broke through his thoughts. "Now, then, what's your problem?"
   
   "I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I've been here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney
  21."
   
   "Just a moment." She glanced at something below the angle of the screen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. " Rickrock C arrived yesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning."
   
   "Departed?" He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. "When will the next ship arrive?"
   
   "Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy?" she asked.
   
   He didn't answer.
   
   
  
   
   "That's right," she said. "Billions. Tunney, according to the notation, is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You've covered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anything within a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longer distances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly, Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up on or near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe."
   
   
  
   
   He blanched. "How long would it take to get there using local transportation, star-hopping?"
   
   "Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky."
   
   "I don't need that kind of luck."
   
   "I suppose not." She hesitated. "You're determined to go on?" At the emphatic nod, she sighed. "If that's your decision, we'll try to help you. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identification tab."
   
   "There's something funny about her," Dimanche decided. It was the usual speaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the blood made in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear it plainly, because it was virtually inside his ear.
   
   Cassal ignored his private voice. "Identification tab? I don't have it with me. In fact, I may have lost it."
   
   She smiled in instant disbelief. "We're not trying to pry into any part of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easier for us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification—" She arose and left the screen. "Just a moment."
   
   He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name!
   
   "Relax," Dimanche suggested. "She didn't mean it as a personal insult."
   
   Presently she returned.
   
   "I have news for you, whoever you are."
   
   "Cassal," he said firmly. "Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If you don't believe it, send back to—" He stopped. It had taken him four months to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth for a ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distances such as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth for anything.
   
   "I see you understand." She glanced at the card in her hand. "The spaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off this morning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21."
   
   "It wasn't I," he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man who had tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now became clear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gotten it.
   
   "No doubt it wasn't," she said wearily. "Outsiders don't seem to understand what galactic travel entails."
   
   Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the second transfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyond the first ring, called Rimmers? Probably.
   
   
  
   
   She was still speaking: "Ten years to cross the Galaxy, without stopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling is impossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is taken off a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgently needed elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; years pass before he learns it's never coming.
   
   "If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn't vanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to depend on ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time, credit established, lost identification replaced—"
   
   "I've traveled before," he interrupted stiffly. "I've never had any trouble."
   
   She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center was more congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limited number of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, no man would arrive at his predetermined destination.
   
   But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't compare galactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in a giant room. Or could you?
   
   For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship, was the comparison too apt? It might be.
   
   "You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting to be settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work." She paused.
  "The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the third ring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. They don't encourage immigration."
   
   In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take a passenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk of having a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of when his money was gone.
   
   Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring.
   
   "Next time," she said, "don't let anyone take your identification."
   
   "I won't," he promised grimly.
   
   
  
   
   The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised his estimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he. Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not that he was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the first counselor.
   
   "We're a philanthropic agency," said Murra Foray. "Your case is special, though—"
   
   "I understand," he said gruffly. "You accept contributions."
   
   She nodded. "If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much that you'll have to compromise your standard of living." But she named a sum that would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took any appreciable time.
   
   He stared at her unhappily. "I suppose it's worth it. I can always work, if I have to."
   
   "As a salesman?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to do business with Godolphians."
   
   Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully.
   
   "Not just another salesman," he answered definitely. "I have special knowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly—"
   
   He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? The instrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large. From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out that information at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage he could get. Dimanche was his special advantage.
   
   "Anyway," he finished lamely, "I'm a first class engineer. I can always find something in that line."
   
   "A scientist, maybe," murmured Murra Foray. "But in this part of the Milky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn't yet gained practical experience." She shook her head. "You'll do better as a salesman."
   
   He got up, glowering. "If that's all—"
   
   "It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slot provided for that purpose as you leave."
   
   A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle, swung open. The agency was efficient.
   
   "Remember," the counselor called out as he left, "identification is hard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery."
   
   He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency was also eminently practical.
   
   The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapable contribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of the bureau.
   
   
  
   
   "I've got it," said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum the first counselor had named.
   
   "Got what?" asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle, attached his name, and dropped it into the chute.
   
   "The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner."
   
   "What's a Huntner?"
   
   "A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizing about her home planet when I managed to locate her."
   
   "Any other information?"
   
   "None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reached her. I got out as fast as I could."
   
   "I see." The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless, it sounded depressing.
   
   "What I want to know is," said Dimanche, "why such precautions as electronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret?"
   
   Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyingly inquisitive at times.
   
   Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out on the other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old man was staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changed every sign in the building. His work finished, the technician was removing the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him. He turned and peered.
   
   "You stuck here, too?" he asked in the uneven voice of the aged.
   
   "Stuck?" repeated Cassal. "I suppose you can call it that. I'm waiting for my ship." He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.
  "Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency. Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agency were new."
   
   The old man chuckled. "Re-organization. The previous first counselor resigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new one didn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed."
   
   She would do just that, thought Cassal. "What about this Murra Foray?"
   
   The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.
   
   Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job, afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but he didn't intend to depend on that alone.
question_text: Describe the setting of the story.
response: The story is set at the place called Godolph. Godolph is the place that travelers transfer from a star that is located further from the Galaxy to the stars that are located near the center of the Galaxy. The story follows Cassal as he walk to the deserted intersection to fight with the guy since Dimanche suggests that there is a connection between him and the delay in his ship. After fighting with the guy, he gets the guys wallet but loses his. Without his identification, he comes to the travelers aid bureau. Here he has to answer questions in order to get a consultation. And during the consultation he learns about missing the ship and about someone who boarded the ship using his identity. Then the story ends with him walking out of the bureau building and asking an old man about Murra Foray, but apparently he is too afraid to answer him. 