She stooped and gathered the papers. Rising, she lowered her head and raised them before her, so that her face was partly hidden. Then she moved into the lobby, as though reading, and found a chair near to the main desk.

"Room and girl, sir?" she heard Horace saying.

"That will be fine," he said, lowering his luggage to the floor.

"There are many vacancies," said Horace, "because of the weather," as he pushed the album across the counter. "Let me know what strikes your fancy."

She heard him turning the pages of the big book and she counted, because she knew them by heart: ... _Four, five_. A pause... . _Six_.

He had stopped.

Oh no! she thought. That would be Jeanne or Synthe. Not either one of them, not for him! Meg, perhaps, or Kyla. But not that cow-eyed Jeanne, or Synthe, who was twenty pounds heavier than her photo indicated.

She ventured a glance and saw that Horace had moved away and was reading a paper.

Deciding quickly, she rose to her feet and approached him.

"Commander Malacar ..."

She tried to say it boldly, but her voice dropped to a whisper because of the dryness of her throat.

He turned and stared down at her. Glancing at Horace from the corner of his eye, he raised his right forefinger and crossed his lips with it.

"Hello. What is your name?"

"Jackara."

Her voice was better this time.

"You work here?"

She nodded.

"Occupied this evening?"

She shook her head.

"Clerk!" He turned.

Horace lowered the paper.

"Yes, Sir?"

He jerked a thumb at Jackara.

"Her," he said.

Horace swallowed and looked uncomfortable.

"Sir, there is something I had better tell you--" he began.

"Her," Malacar repeated. "Sign me in."

"Just as you say, sir," said Horace, producing a blank card and a writing stylus. "But--"

"The name is Rory Jimson, and I am from Miadod, on Camphor. Pay now, or pay later?"

"Pay now, sir. Eighteen units."

"How much is that in DYNAB dollars?"

"Fourteen and a half."

Malacar produced a roll of bills and paid him.

Horace opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "If everything is not satisfactory, please let me know immediately."

Malacar nodded and stooped for his bags.

"If you'll wait here, I'll ring you a rob."

"That won't be necessary."

"Very well. In that case, Jackara can show you to the room."

The clerk picked up the stylus, fidgeted with it, replaced it. Finally, he returned to his paper.

Malacar followed her toward the lift shaft, studying her form, her hair, trying to recall her face.

_Shind, prepare to transmit and relay_, he said, as they entered the shaft.

_Ready_.

--_Do not look startled, Jackara, or give any out-ward sign of hearing me. Tell me how it is that you know me_.

--_You are a telepath!_

--_Just answer the question, bearing in mind that I can destroy half this building by waving my arm in the proper way_.

"This is where we get off," she said aloud, and they left the lift and she turned to the right, leading him along a tigerstriped corridor where lights glowed only in the baseboards. The effect was tantalizing as well as stark. It gave a somewhat animal-like aura to the girl moving before him. He sniffed and detected faint narcotic fumes in the air. They were stronger near the ventilators.

--_I have seen your picture many times. I have read much about you. That is how I knew you. As a matter of fact, I have all your biographies--even the two CL ones_.

He laughed aloud and gave Shind the shorthand signal for "End transmission. Continue to receive," then, _Is she telling the truth, Shind?_ he inquired.

_Yes. She admires you considerably. She is quite excited and extremely nervous_.

_No trap, then?_

_No_.

She halted before a door, fumbled with her key for a time, unlocked it.

She pushed it open and instead of entering or stepping aside, moved to bar it, facing him. Her face twisted and untwisted and she looked as if she were about to cry.

"Do not laugh when you go in," she said. "Please. No matter what you see."

"I won't," he said.

Then she stepped aside.

He entered the room and looked about. His eyes fell first upon the whips, then moved to the picture above the bed. He lowered his luggage to the floor and continued to stare. He heard the door close. The room was a study in asceticism. Gray walls and gleaming fixtures. The one window was shuttered tight.

He began to understand.

_Yes_, said Shind.

_Prepare to transmit and receive_.

_Ready_.

--_Is this room monitored in any way?_ he inquired.

--_Not exactly. That would be illegal. There are ways that I can request assistance or activate monitors, though_.

--_Are any of them activated right now?_

--_No_.

--_Then no one will hear us if we speak_.

"No," she said aloud; and he turned to look at her where she stood with her back and palms pressed against the door, eyes wide, lips dry.

"Don't be afraid of me," he said. "You sleep with me every night, don't you?"

Feeling awkward when she did not reply, he removed his coat and looked around.

"Is there a place where I can hang this to dry out?"

She moved forward and seized the garment.

"I'll take it. I'll hang it in my shower."

She jerked it from his hands, passed quickly through a narrow door and closed it behind her. He heard its lock click. After a time he heard sounds of retching.

He took a step in that direction, about to rap and ask if she were all right.

_Do not_, said Shind. _Let her be_.

_All right. --Do you want to be let out?_

_No. I would only upset her further. I am quite corn fortable_.

After a time, he heard a flushing sound, and a little later the door opened and she emerged. He noted that her eyelashes were wet. He also noted the bright blue of her eyes within them.

"It will be dry before too long," she said, "Commander."

"Thank you. Please call me Malacar, Jackara. Or better yet, Rory."

He rounded the bed to study the picture more closely.

"That's a good likeness. Where's it from?"

She brightened, followed to stand beside him.

"It was a plate, from your biography by that man Gillian. I had it enlarged and tridized. It is the best picture I have of you."

"I never read the book," he said. "I am trying to remember where the picture was taken, but I can't."

"That was right before the Parameter Eight Maneuver," she said, "when you were preparing the Fourth Fleet to rendezvous with Conlil. It was taken about an hour prior to your departure, according to the book."

He turned and looked down at her, smiling.

"I believe you're correct," he said, and she smiled at this.

"Cigarette?" he offered.

"No, thank you."

He took one himself, lit it.

How the hell did I walk into this? he asked himself. A real patho case of hero worship--with me as its object. If I say the wrong thing, she'll probably go to pieces. What is the best tack to take with her? Perhaps if I let her think I am nervous, then ask for her confidence on something unimportant .

"Listen," he said, "you startled me downstairs because nobody knew I was coming to Deiba, and I did not think too many people remembered my face. I came to this place rather than one of the hotels because nobody here cares about faces or names. You surprised me, though. I wanted to keep my presence a secret, and I thought I'd been uncovered."

"But you're immune to the laws, aren't you?"

"I'm not here to break them. Not this time, anyhow. I came to obtain some information--quietly, confidentially."

He stared directly into her eyes.

"Can I trust you to keep my presence a secret?"

"Of course," she said. "What else would I do? I was born in the DYNAB. May I assist you with whatever you are doing?"