For a moment, there, he paused and stood frowning. Then, narrow-eyed, he fumbled through his tunic's pocket and came out with a now-familiar note-sheet ... unfolded it ... stared down at the name and address it bore: _Veta Hall, 417D Esrach Unit_.
Folding the note-sheet again, Ross strode on through the alley to the next street, climbed into the first vacant transor, and punched the Esrach Unit button on the selector panel.
The transor surged forward, gears whining as it picked up speed. Three minutes and a bewildering series of turns later, it ground to a halt once more, automatic door already lifting.
Ross got out. But instead of going on into the unit, he left-faced, walked briskly down the street to the first corner, turned right, and so continued until, after another right turn, he stood directly behind the Esrach building.
In front, the structure had made some show of keeping up appearances, for all its obvious age and deterioration. The entrance was neat if not new, and imitation veldrene drapes and occasional lengths of doloid stripping had been added to put a bold front to drabness.
Back here, in the rear, all such was recognized as sham. Thick grime and even streaks of rust took the place of decoration. Litter cluttered the base-line, and the nearest door sagged half-open on its hinges.
Inside, old odors of grease and filth added to the air of decay.
There was a stairway of sorts beside an ancient fire-tube. Climbing to the fourth level, Ross moved silently down the dank central corridor.
Veta Hall's number, 417D, was located close to the middle of the first wing. Instead of a tab-lock, the door had a primitive chain affair, anchored on the inside.
Getting out his writer, Ross maneuvered for a moment. The chain clinked, then fell away.
Easing the door open the rest of the way, Ross stepped inside.
Small noises drifted from a room beyond the one in which he stood. Crossing to it, he reached for the doorknob.
Before he could touch it, the door whipped open. Veta crossed the threshold, her eyes not even focussing on him.
Ross caught her wrists as she looked up. When she started to cry out, he twisted sharply, so that the sound died on an indrawn breath.
Now she stared at him, face pain-strained. "Thigpen, what's the matter--?" It was the faintest of whispers.