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Logic’s a wonderful thing; by logical analysis, one can determine the necessary reason for the existence of a dead city of a very high order on an utterly useless planet. Obviously a shipping transfer point! Necessarily…

“Mendez?” said the young man in the blue-and-green tartan jacket. “Why, yes … sure I’ve heard of it. Why?”

The clerk behind the desk looked again at the information screen. “That’s the destination we have on file for Scholar Duckworth, Mr. Turnbull. That was six months ago.” He looked up from the screen, waiting to see if Turnbull had any more questions.

Turnbull tapped his teeth with a thumbnail for a couple of seconds, then shrugged slightly. “Any address given for him?”

“Yes, sir. The Hotel Byron, Landing City, Mendez.”

Turnbull nodded. “How much is the fare to Mendez?”

The clerk thumbed a button which wiped the information screen clean, then replaced it with another list, which flowed upward for a few seconds, then stopped. “Seven hundred and eighty-five fifty, sir,” said the clerk. “Shall I make you out a ticket?”

Turnbull hesitated. “What’s the route?”

The clerk touched another control, and again the information on the screen changed. “You’ll take the regular shuttle from here to Luna, then take either the Stellar Queen or the Oriona to Sirius VI. From there, you will have to pick up a ship to the Central Worlds–either to Vanderlin or BenAbram–and take a ship from there to Mendez. Not complicated, really. The whole trip won’t take you more than three weeks, including stopovers.”

“I see,” said Turnbull. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’ll let you know.”

“Very well, sir. The Stellar Queen leaves on Wednesdays and the Oriona on Saturdays. We’ll need three days’ notice.”

Turnbull thanked the clerk and headed toward the big doors that led out of Long Island Terminal, threading his way through the little clumps of people that milled around inside the big waiting room.

He hadn’t learned a hell of a lot, he thought. He’d known that Duckworth had gone to Mendez, and he already had the Hotel Byron address. There was, however, some negative information there. The last address they had was on Mendez, and yet Scholar Duckworth couldn’t be found on Mendez. Obviously, he had not filed a change of address there; just as obviously, he had managed to leave the planet without a trace. There was always the possibility that he’d been killed, of course. On a thinly populated world like Mendez, murder could still be committed with little chance of being caught. Even here on Earth, a murderer with the right combination of skill and luck could remain unsuspected.

But who would want to kill Scholar Duckworth?

And why?

Turnbull pushed the thought out of his mind. It was possible that Duckworth was dead, but it was highly unlikely. It was vastly more probable that the old scholar had skipped off for reasons of his own and that something had happened to prevent him from contacting Turnbull.

After all, almost the same thing had happened in reverse a year ago.

Outside the Terminal Building, Turnbull walked over to a hackstand and pressed the signal button on the top of the control column. An empty cab slid out of the traffic pattern and pulled up beside the barrier which separated the vehicular traffic from the pedestrian walkway. The gate in the barrier slid open at the same time the cab door did, and Turnbull stepped inside and sat down. He dialed his own number, dropped in the indicated number of coins, and then relaxed as the cab pulled out and sped down the freeway towards Manhattan.

He’d been back on Earth now for three days, and the problem of Scholar James Duckworth was still bothering him. He hadn’t known anything about it until he’d arrived at his apartment after a year’s absence.

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