Free Silence is Deadly by Jr. Lloyd Biggle Page A

space between its bottom and the warehouse floor. Sacks were piled there. Darzek crawled into the inviting opening as far as he could and stretched out on the coarse material. He was completely exhausted. He turned to look back; she had replaced the panel. “The time to worry about tomorrow is when it happens,” he told himself. He fell asleep at once.
    When he awoke, he could see light through cracks in the end panel. He turned over and stretched. Pain stabbed at his wounded arm, which was throbbing alarmingly. He crawled toward the light and carefully removed his bandage. His entire arm was swollen, but there seemed to be no sign of infection. Awkwardly he replaced the bandage, and then he sat back to meditate his hunger and think what he should do.
    His career as a sweep would have to be postponed until he could move his arm effectively. He closed his eyes and reviewed again his blundering attempt to locate the Synthesis headquarters. He had not bothered to learn the cumbersome written language of Storoz. Only a special class of scribes had acquired that knowledge, so it had seemed unlikely that Darzek’s ignorance would embarrass him; but evidently the average citizen had sufficient mastery of the strange glyphs to recognize street signs and his own house number. Darzek had thought he would have no problem in recognizing the glyph above the lintel on the Synthesis headquarters, but on his return, all such designs looked alike to him. He’d thought he couldn’t mistake the pastel-shaded stone of the house and its distinctive pattern, but he’d found a hundred buildings on each lane that looked identical.
    Perhaps the beehive-like incense burner would provide him with the clue he needed. The one at the Synthesis headquarters had not been in use, and he had puzzled over its function before setting out. As soon as night came, he should be able to walk about in his sweep clothing and look for a burned-out incense burner.
    “Unless,” he told himself ruefully, “they let all of them go out at night.”
    The panel opened and the girl looked in. She handed something to him.
    It was a sandwich of bread and meat, such as he had eaten the day before. He accepted it with a smile. She ducked back out of sight and returned to offer him a crude wood mug filled with cool cider.
    Again she vanished, and this time she returned with a sandwich and mug for herself. She sat down on the pile of sacks and kept her eyes on him while they ate in silence. When they finished, she placed the mugs and the crinkly wrappings from the sandwiches outside the opening. Then she sat back and continued to watch Darzek.
    He slipped his sleeve down and showed her the awkwardly tied bandage. She immediately moved to his side, removed the bandage, studied the wound for a moment, and then replaced the bandage, tying it gently but firmly.
    She resumed her place, once again keeping her eyes on him. He wondered if she had sold the perfumer’s clothing to buy their food, and if she would be offended if he offered her money. Finally he handed her some coins and told her, For our next meal.
    She smiled at him.
    There was much that he wanted to ask her, but he would have to shape his questions so as not to arouse her suspicions. He decided to begin by stating the obvious. He could not remember the fingering for “stranger,” so he said, I am a non-citizen.
    She made no comment.
    He asked, How would I get work as a sweep?
    Go at night and see if they need anyone, her hands replied.
    Do they often need anyone?
    No.
    Probably it was a universal law. There always were more unskilled applicants than there were jobs. Is there any other work I could get? he asked.
    I’ll look, she said.
    She left, taking the mugs and wrappings with her, and she replaced the panel. Darzek waited until the sounds of her departure had faded, and then he eased the panel aside and cautiously looked out. He had heard no activity in or about the building, and he quickly discovered that it