Delay in Transit

Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at



Illustrated by SIBLEY

[Transcriber’s Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is
terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse
on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror
is the offer of help that cannot be accepted!

“Muscles tense,” said Dimanche. “Neural index 1.76, unusually high. Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he’s stalking you. Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon.”

“Not interested,” said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudible to anyone but Dimanche. “I’m not the victim type. He was standing on the walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I’m going back to the habitat hotel and sit tight.”

“First you have to get there,” Dimanche pointed out. “I mean, is it safe for a stranger to walk through the city?”

“Now that you mention it, no,” answered Cassal. He looked around apprehensively. “Where is he?”

“Behind you. At the moment he’s pretending interest in a merchandise display.”

A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he was accustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that all travelers were crazy.

Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk. It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea?

A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it was peculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian was at a definite disadvantage.

“Correction,” said Dimanche. “Not simple assault. He has murder in mind.”

“It still doesn’t appeal to me,” said Cassal. Striving to look unconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway and stared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside, he might find safety for a time.

Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to elude him in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour the streets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human would consider it dim.

“Why did he choose me?” asked Cassal plaintively. “There must be something he hopes to gain.”

“I’m working on it,” said Dimanche. “But remember, I have limitations. At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpret physiological data. I can’t read minds. The best I can do is report what a person says or subvocalizes. If you’re really interested in finding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problem over to the godawful police.”

“Godolph, not godawful,” corrected Cassal absently.

That was advice he couldn’t follow, good as it seemed. He could give the police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were various reasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device called Dimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own, say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn’t seem the proper approach, either.


“The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A long knife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person.”

Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course in semantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man could die from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure of protection himself.

“Report,” said Dimanche. “Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, on tenuous evidence.”

“Let’s have it anyway.”

“His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. For some reason you can’t get off this planet.”

That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousand star systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one.

Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn’t come in. Godolph was a transfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When he had left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here. He hadn’t expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn’t unusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not as reliable as they might be.

Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected with that delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He was self-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn’t?

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