50 in 50

"Intelligence Section can give you more detailed information on that, though I don't think you will need it. We have one operative who has been consistently reliable, the only one I might say. His loyalty is to money and we see that he is well paid. He will tell you anything you need to know. Only you must go to him, he is never seen near the military compound."

"The name?"

"One-finger. He has an unusual deformity of one hand. He keeps a low-class inn and drinking parlor in the Old Town. I will arrange for the proper clothes and someone to show you the way."

No possible disguise could have made Kai resemble anything other than what he was. He grumbled at being left behind while Petion was slipping into the loose robes of a Turaccian trader. The Intelligence Officer, Captain Langrup, adjusted the outfit with professional skill.

"A number of traders come through here," Langrup said, "so two more wouldn't be noticed. A lot of them stay at One-finger's so this is a natural cover."

"Do you have the caller?" Kai asked, taking the small, high-frequency receiver out of his pocket. Petion nodded and held up his hand with the ornate ring. When he pressed on the stone and twisted a shrill squeal blasted from the receiver. It warbled up and down when Kai changed the angle of the directional aerial.

"I doubt if we'll need to use it.” Petion said. "We're just going there for information and there's no danger involved."

"That's what you said on Cervi III.” Kai scoffed, "and you were four months in the hospital afterwards. I'll be hanging around close, ready to bust in."

As Petion and the intelligence captain strolled through the Old Town they were barely aware of the stocky shadow that followed them. Kai was a good policeman, and a good tail even in the twisted labyrinth of dark passageways. Petion had lost his direction completely by the time Langrup turned into a black entranceway. It was a side entrance to a tap room. A noisy, badly lit place, filled with the stink of the burning weed the Andriadans smoked and the sweet pungency of beer slops. Langrup ordered two mugs of the best and Petion took careful note of the man who banged them down on the bar. His skin was sallow and wrinkled; the way it hung on the thin Andriadan bones it made him look like a walking skeleton. An accident or deformity had left him with only the index finger of his left hand. It appeared to be quite strong and he used it skillfully.

"We have some samples to show you," Captain Langrup said. "Shall we take them inside?"

One-finger only grunted, his eyes half-closed and flicking back and forth at both of them. "Are the prices right?" he asked finally, the single finger scratching towards them across the bar, an animal nosing about for money.

"Don't worry," Langrup said and pulled back the corner of his cloak so the full wallet could be seen hanging from his belt. One-finger grunted again and turned away.

"A repulsive type, but valuable," Langrup said. "Finish the beer then follow me." They left by the main entrance, but instead of going all the way out into the street they climbed quietly up the stairs in the entranceway. There was a small room in the back of the building and they only waited a few minutes before the informer came in.

"Information costs money," he said, and the finger scratched towards them again from across the table.

Langrup clinked ten of the translucent glass coins on the table. "Tell us about Prince Mello," he said. "Did he ever come here to the city?"

"Many times. In his car. On the way to the palace or the country. ."

"Don't be devious!" Langrup snapped. "We're paying for facts. Did he ever come here². Did he go anywhere else in the city? Did he have any friends here he visited… or girls?"

One-finger laughed, a crackling unpleasant sound. "A girl! What girl could stand being near a Sinnd-smeller! He came here once and I had to fumigate the place afterwards. He told me that my place stank! He came here, went some other places, he never came back. There were no friends of his here" — his eyes half-closed again—"or enemies."

"What's this about being a 'Sinnd-smeller'?" Petion asked the Captain.

Langrup answered him, ignoring the informer's presence as though he were part of the furniture.

"It's a local idea, I'm not sure if it is true or just a way to insult us. They say that all offworlders smell like Sinnd — that's a local carnivore. Say they can't stand to be near us too long. One-finger over there probably has plugs in his nose right now."

"Is this true?" Petion asked him. One-finger didn't answer but grinned and tilted his head back instead, while the long finger leapt up and tapped at the white base of a plug barely seen in one nostril.

"Interesting," Petion mused.