Shrugging, Herndon clasped the go-between in his arms with feigned passion. Their lips met; their bodies pressed tight. Herndon felt the girl's hand searching for his, and slipping something cool, metallic into it. Her lips left his, travelled to his ear, and murmured:
"This is her key. Be there in half an hour."
They broke apart. Herndon nodded farewell to her and returned his attention to the glories of the viewplate. He did not glance at the object in his hand, but merely stored it in his pocket.
He counted out fifteen minutes in his mind, then left the viewing-room and emerged on the main deck. The ball was still in progress, but he learned from a guard on duty that the Lord and Lady Moaris had already left for sleep, and that the festivities were soon to end.
Herndon slipped into a washroom and examined the key—for key it was. It was a radionic opener, and imprinted on it were the numbers 1160.
His throat felt suddenly dry. The Lady Moaris was inviting him to her room for the night—or was this a trap, and would Moaris and his court be waiting for him, to gun him down and provide themselves with some amusement? It was not beyond these nobles to arrange such a thing.
But still—he remembered the clearness of her eyes, and the beauty of her face. He could not believe she would be party to such a scheme.
He waited out the remaining fifteen minutes. Then, moving cautiously along the plush corridors, he found his way to Room 1160.
He listened a moment. Silence from within. His heart pounded frantically, irking him; this was his first major test, possibly the gateway to all his hopes, and it irritated him that he felt anxiety.
He touched the tip of the radionic opener to the door. The substance of the door blurred as the energy barricade that composed it was temporarily dissolved. Herndon stepped through quickly. Behind him, the door returned to a state of solidity.