My advance information from Central Control had directed me to a two-storied Victorian on K Street, in the downtown area of Sacramento, a metropolitan community of about a million residents.
For a few minutes I stood near the wrought-iron gate, basking in the early morning sunlight, inspecting the old home. It was in a general state of disrepair, needing the services of both a painter and a carpenter (as these tradesmen were called here). I let my gaze sweep the neighborhood, recording more impressions. Once quite elegant, the old houses were slowly being converted into rentals, apartments, and guest homes; a few were actually gone, having given away to parking lots--
A transition neighborhood.
Thank you for the proper term, even though I didn't ask for assistance, Chatterbox, I keyed back, my sarcasm wasted no doubt on my constant companion (one of the Services' portable personal A.I.'s--sidekick model). After requesting an update from Central, I waited, enjoying the moment, for I was at the end of a long hunt, halfway across the galaxy to this backwater planet...
Everything cross-checks.
Then, he's here?
Probability very high.
At that precise moment, a movement in the front, right window of the upper story--only the slightest flutter of a curtain--caught my attention, my finely-tuned awareness always keenly vigilant. I peered directly at the window, glimpsing a shadowy figure drawing back from the curtain.
Aha!
I smiled inwardly, for I knew that the apparently shy creature behind that curtain was the object of my long hunt: Jalak, the criminally insane destroyer of worlds. Yes, I almost shouted (only my superior programming keeping me from revealing myself) it is I, your nemesis, the Service's finest undercover agent (master grade, of course). And this time, I vowed to myself, my power cell surging from the emotive force of my oath, you will not have the opportunity to indulge in one of your psychotic amusements. No, indeed!
Again the curtains fluttered, as if shuddering at my vow.
With an effort I dropped my gaze, not wanting to alert my adversary that he was now under professional surveillance.
On the ground floor of the building, a sign in a window near the front door caught my attention:
Donahue's Guest Home For Gentlemen
"Gentlemen," I repeated--
A well-bred person.
I know the meaning, I keyed back, almost choking on the irony of the definition, for Jalak was no gentleman, no indeed. He came from the lowest dregs of my society, and even among that class he was an outcast, feared for his uncontrolled and violent outbursts.
Well, I decided, there's little to be gained by standing idly in the morning sun. Even somewhat insulated by my fleshy shell, I was beginning to feel the heat. I flipped a toggle on the control console, then deftly maneuvered the levers, pedals, and pulleys that propelled me forward, finally negotiating the steps to the front door. I suppressed a chuckle, visualizing what Jalak saw from his vantage: An old man dressed in stylish western garb--vanilla Stetson, matching cowboy suit, black string tie, sandy snakeskin boots--mounting the steps. "Thank you Physical and Psychological Accessories Section," I whispered gratefully under my breath, remembering the words of the Section Chief when I drew the gear: Only the best for the Service's finest undercover agent.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I paused as if catching my breath; but inside my human disguise, I was making the complicated console adjustments for speaking Texas drawl--a dialect of the language extremely difficult to master by the foreign speaker because of non-grammatical peculiarities and a slurring of pronunciation. Finally ready, I rang the bell.
After a short wait, the door was answered by an elderly woman. She was quite tiny, a faded gingham apron covering her gray dress--a plain general appearance. "Good morning--?" she said, the greeting a question. As she waited for a response, her hands busily smoothed out the wrinkles in her apron--a pitifully useless but dignified attempt to make herself presentable. At that point my acutely-refined powers of observation zeroed in on the woman's only remarkable characteristic: Her eyes sparkled a deep violet, the rarest shade of amethyst, a highly distinctive eye color in this species. And, I had to admit, even attractive, so at odds with the rest of her appearance. Inside my fleshy shell, I hit the switches which activated my drawl.
"Good morning, ma'am," I said, doffing my Stetson (an act of courtesy almost archaic now, but still considered genteel by older folk of this species). "I'm Buford D. Ramsey ... I called about the room? Do I have the pleasure of addressing the proprietor of this magnificent establishment, Mrs. Donahue?"
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