The voice came from the shadows. A dull, phlegmatic, tranquilized, conditioned voice. I stopped short; turned fast. "Who's asking?"
The man shrugged stolidly, not even picking up my tension. "I'm a port rep, Agent Traynor. Port rep second, that is—"
"So who told you to come out here? Who said you should meet me?"
"Oh...." A pause. "Well, you see, there's this sigman, Agent Traynor. Up in the Interworld Communications section. He had a regular 7-D clearance report that a FedGov Security investigation agent was warping in—you have to file a 7-D on all warpings, you know, Agent Traynor, on account of restrictives. So—well, the rep first was out to eat, so I just notified Rizal Security, just a routine report, and the unit controller there, an Agent Gaylord, he said for me to meet you, and—"
I bit down hard and shifted my weight, both at once, wondering if a broken jaw would interfere with the work of a port rep second.
Only then, all at once, I caught the unmistakable whish of a grav-car sweeping in.
The lights hit us almost in the same instant. Two seconds later a man who said he was Agent Gaylord was jumping down and locking wrists with me in Rizal's traditional greeting.
Even that wrist-lock set my teeth on edge. It was too solid, too stolid, too thorough a job of conditioning.
Or was it maybe, just a trifle over-done?
Thoughtfully, I studied Gaylord.