GOMEZ DECIDED AGAINST WHISTLING.
He kept his mouth tightly shut as he stepped from the warm lobby of the Louvre Hotel and into the bitterly cold dawn street. A light snow was falling straight down through the frigid morning.
“There’s a most strange smell in the air, monsieur,” observed the chef, who was filling in as bellbot and carrying Gomez’s single suitcase.
“My coat.”
The chef glanced over at him. “Ah, oui. So it is. The garment appears to be smoldering.”
“Does that at highest setting.”
“Next time you purchase a thermocoat in Paris, monsieur, ask me first. I can send you to a shop where you’ll get—But here comes your landcab.”
A maroon vehicle was pulling up at the curb. When it halted, a chrome-plated robot in a long tan overcoat stepped out. “You order the Vite Cab?”
“Yeah,” admitted Gomez.
The chef stepped forward to turn Gomez’s suitcase over to the cabbie for stowing. His foot hit a patch of snow-covered ice and he went sliding uncontrollably ahead.
His cap fell off and he stumbled into the robot driver. The suitcase swung up, slamming the cabbie in the groin.
“Yow,” yelled the robot, hopping back, bumping into his parked cab, bringing both hands up to his crotch.
“Robots don’t have balls,” realized Gomez. He sent a hand burrowing into his thermocoat and yanked out his stungun.
The spurious robot was turning toward him, one hand abandoning his crotch to slip into an overcoat pocket for a gun.
Gomez fired.
The beam of the stungun took the driver in the left ribs. He gasped, staggered, and fell. His metal head popped off as he hit the paving, revealing the face of a Parisian goon beneath it.
“Something’s very much amiss,” commented the chef as he struggled to get up.
“Si,” agreed Gomez.
From down the dawn street two other louts were running.
Pausing only to grab his suitcase, Gomez jumped into the driveseat of the landcab.
Doors flapping, he drove it away down the snowy thoroughfare.
Jake awakened suddenly.
The night was gone and gray daybreak was showing at the one-way plastiglass wall of the bedroom.
Yawning once, he turned to look at Marj.
She was no longer there beside him.
He reached over, touching the place where she’d been lying. It was cold.
Jake sat up, glancing around the room.
Then he became aware of a faint murmuring. It sounded like two people in conversation somewhere in the cottage.
Very quietly Jake left the bed. He walked to the partially open doorway. One of the voices was Marj’s, the other was that of a young man. Jake couldn’t make out any actual words.
They sounded as though they were in the kitchen.
Slowly and silently, Jake dressed. When he picked up his shoulder holster to strap it on, he discovered that his stungun was missing.
He took time to search the bedroom for it, even though he didn’t expect to find the weapon there.
Easing out into the early morning hallway, Jake stood listening.
The murmured conversation was still going on. The young man sounded angry.
Jake walked to the kitchen and pushed the door open.
The yellow room was empty.
But he could still hear the voices.
He crossed to the open pantry door and looked in. At the back of it a wide panel stood open.
“... and the best news is, after all, that you’ll be able to kill Bennett Sands,” Marj was saying.
“That’s great, but did you have to sleep with that damned cop to find out?”
“Listen, nothing happened ... really. But I did have to get close to him,” she answered. “I knew he’d probably find out where Sands was hiding—and he did.”
“Hell, you could’ve located Bennett without the help of some over-the-hill gumshoe,” said the young man. “You found all the others for me.”
Moving to the opening, Jake looked in.
A short ramp led down to a brightly lit electronics laboratory. Marj, wearing a lab coat, was perched on one of the workbenches. Leaning against the opposite bench was a young man with a bushy moustache. His hair was short-cropped and he wore an earring made of a Brazilian coin.
“The important thing is that we’ve located Sands,” Marj persisted. “Now you have to get up to the Caribbean Colony and—”
“Good morning.” Jake entered the lab.
“Hello, Jake, I figured you’d find your way down here sooner or later,” said Marj, smiling. “I’d like you to meet my brother.”
Singing enthusiastically and banging on a drum, Gomez entered the Central Paris Subtrain Depot. He was clad in a long dark overcoat, a pulled-down cap, and a muffler that covered a good portion of his face. Two caroling androids, similarly attired, were marching in front of him and three followed behind.
The group halted on the platform for the Paris-London tunnel train. The first android, after adjusting his cap, set up a large glosign that proclaimed they were collecting funds for the International Salvation Army.
Gomez, as he whapped the drum, scanned the figures that were scattered along the platform. Passengers were boarding the compartment cars, friends, some of them yawning drowsily, were seeing them off.
Standing over near a lopsided soycaf kiosk was Timecheck. He was nibbling a croissant while consulting several of his built-in watches.
Gomez, moving away from his fellow carolers, sidled over to the young Chinese. “Spare a few francs for a worthy cause?” he inquired, holding out his palm.
“Do a swift scramola, buddy,” advised the informant.
“I’m glad my disguise is foolproof.” Gomez set down the drum. “Pretend to be forking over a charitable contribution.”
“Shit, Gomez, you’re seven minutes and thirteen seconds late.”
“Is Dr. Danenberg on board the train?”
“Yeah, the quiff got here, alone, twelve minutes ago.” Rolling down his sleeve, Timecheck began pretending to search his pockets. “Always glad to help a wonderful organization like yours, chum,” he said in a louder voice.
“That didn’t ring especially sincere. No matter.” Gomez looked around. “Have you spotted any goons or louts hereabouts?”
Timecheck shook his head. “Just the usual grifters, pimps, pickpockets, teleks, and con artists. Why?”
“Somebody tried to do me serious harm as I was departing my hotel.”
“You figure Dr. Danenberg arranged that?”
“She or her associates, sí.”
“Well, I haven’t seen any unusual thugs since I arrive here thirteen minutes and eight—make that nine seconds ago.”
Gomez nodded toward the waiting train. “What compartment is Dr. D. in?”
“Twenty-six C—two cars up.”
“I’m wondering if my already booked compartment is going to prove safe.”
“As I say, I haven’t noticed any pro killers hanging around. But, you know, to be on the safe side, maybe you should bunk with the other skirt.”
Gomez frowned. “What lady are you alluding to?”
“That reporter bimbo.”
“Natalie? Is Natalie Dent aboard this selfsame train?”
“She climbed aboard nine minutes and seventeen seconds ago.”
“She alone?”
“Far as I could tell.”
“I was hoping I’d ditched her.”
“She’s a smart cookie. That time I met her in Kyoto, she struck me as—”
“I’d best hop on the train,” said Gomez. “What room is Nat occupying?”
“Forty-two B—four cars up.”
“Return, por favor, the drum to my musical colleagues.”
“It’s heavy.”
“Bill me for the chore.”
“Okay. You only got one minute and twenty-three seconds before the train pulls out. You better hurry.”
Hurrying, Gomez entered the Paris-London Subtrain.
He stood in the corridor, trying to decide which compartment to go to.