WASP by Eric Frank Russell

Chapter I

HE AMBLED INTO the room, sat in the indicated chair and said

nothing. The baffled expression had been on his face quite

a time and he was getting a bit tired of wearing it.

The big fellow who had brought him all the way from

Alaska now departed, silently closing the door and leaving

him alone with the man contemplating him from behind the

desk. A small plaque informed that this character's name was

William Wolf. It was inappropriate: he looked more like a

bull moose.

Wolf said in hard, even tones, "Mr. Mowry, you are entitled

to an explanation." A pause, followed by, "You will get one."

Then he stared unblinkingly at his listener.

For a long-drawn minute James Mowry suffered the intent

scrutiny before he asked, "When?"

"Soon."

With that, Wolf went on staring at him. The gaze was

unpleasantly piercing, analytical, and the face around it

was about as warm and expressive as a lump of hard rock.

"Mind standing up?"

Mowry stood up.

"Turn around."

He rotated, looking bored.

"Walk to and fro across the room."

He walked.

"Tsk-tsk!" grunted Wolf in a way that indicated neither

pleasure nor pain. "I assure you, Mr. Mowry, that I am quite

serious when I ask you to oblige by walking bow-legged."

Splaying his knees as much as possible, Mowry stumped

around as if riding an invisible horse. Then he resumed his

chair and said pointedly. "There'd better be money in this.

I don't come three thousand miles and make like a clown for

nothing."

"There's no money in it, not a cent," informed Wolf. "If

lucky, there is life."

"And if out of luck?"

"Death."

"You're damnably frank about it," Mowry commented.

"In this job I have to be." Wolf stared at him again, long

and penetratingly. `You'll do. Yes, I'm sure you'll do."

"Do for what?"

"I'll tell you in a moment." Opening a drawer, he extracted

some papers, passed them across. "These will enable you

better to understand the position. Read them through - they

lead up to what follows."

Mowry glanced at them. They were typescript copies of

press reports. Settling back in his chair he perused them slowly

and with care.

The first told of a prankster in Roumania. This fellow had

done nothing more than stand in the road gazing fascinatedly

at the sky, occasionally uttering ejaculations and loud phrases

such as, `Blue flames!' Curious people had joined him and

gaped likewise. The group became a crowd, the crowd became

a mob, and the bigger the mob the faster it grew.

Soon the audience blocked the street, overflowed into

side-streets. Police tried to break it up, making matters worse.

Some fool summoned the fire squads. Hysterics on the fringes

swore they could see or had seen something weird above the

clouds. Reporters and cameramen rushed to the scene.

Rumours raced around. The government sent up the air force

for a closer look. Panic spread over an area of two hundred

square miles from which the original cause had judiciously

disappeared.

"Amusing if nothing else," remarked Mowry.

"Read on."

The second report concerned a daring escape from jail of

two notorious killers. They had stolen a car, made six hundred

miles before recapture. Their term of freedom had lasted

exactly fourteen hours.

The third detailed an automobile accident. Three killed,.

one seriously injured, the car a complete wreck, the sole

survivor had died nine hours later.

Handing back the papers, Mowry said, "What's all this to

me?"

"We'll take those reports in the order as read," began Wolf.

"They prove something of which we've long been aware but,

maybe you haven't realised yourself. For the first one, that

Roumanian did nothing, positively nothing save stare at the

sky and mumble. All the same, he persuaded a government

to start jumping around like fleas on a hot griddle. It shows

that in given conditions action and reaction can be hopelessly

out of proportion. Also that by doing insignificant things in

suitable circumstances one can obtain results monstrously in

excess of the effort."

"I'II give you that." Mowry conceded.

"Now the lamsters, They didn't do much either; climbed a

wall, grabbed a car, drove like mad until the petrol ran out,

got caught' He leaned forward, continued with added emphasis,

"But for most of fourteen hours they monopolised the

attention of six planes, ten helicopters, one hundred and

twenty patrol-cars, eighteen telephone exchanges, uncountable

phone lines and radio link-ups, not to mention police,

deputies, posses of volunteers, hunters, trackers, forest rangers

and National . Guardsmen to a grand total of twenty-seven

thousands scattered over three states."

"Phew!" Mowry raised his eyebrows.

"Finally, let's consider this auto smash. We know the cause;

the survivor was able to tell us before he died. He said the

driver lost control at high speed while swiping at a wasp

which had flown in through a window and started buzzing

around his face."

"It nearly happened to me once."

Ignoring that, Wolf went on, "The weight of a wasp is under

half an ounce. Compared with a human being its size is

minute, its strength negligible. Its sole armament is a tiny

syringe holding a drop of irritant, formic acid, and in this

case it didn't even use it. Nevertheless it killed four big men

and converted a large, powerful car into a heap of scrap."

"I see the point," agreed Mowry, "but where do I come in?"

"Right here," said Wolf. "We want you to become a wasp"

Leaning back, Mowry eyed the other contemplatively, then

commented, "The muscle-bound lug who brought me here was a

Secret Service agent who had satisfied me as to the genuineness

of his credentials. This is a government department.

You're a high-ranking official. But for those facts I'd say

you’re crazy."

"Maybe I am,' gave back Wolf, blank-faced, `but I don't

think so."

"You want me to do something?"

"Yes."

"Something extra-special?"

"Yes."

"At risk of death?"

"I'm afraid so."

"And for no reward?"

"Correct"

Mowry stood up, reached for his hat. "I'm not crazy either."

"You will be," said Wolf, in the same flat tones, "if you rest

content to let the Sirians kick us out of existence."

Letting go the hat, Mowry sat down again. "What d'you

mean?"

"There's a war on."

"I know. Everybody knows." He made a disparaging gesture.

"We've been fighting the Sirian Combine for ten months. The

newspapers say so. The radio says so. The video says so. The

government says so. I am credulous enough to believe the

lot of them."

"Then perhaps you're willing to stretch your credulity a bit

further and swallow a few more items," Wolf suggested.

"Such as?"

"The Terran public is complacent because to date nothing

has happened in this sector. They know that already the

enemy has launched two determined attacks against our solar

system and that both have been beaten off. The public has

great confidence in Terran defences. That confidence is

justified; no Sirian task force will ever penetrate this far."

"Well, what have we to worry about?"

"Wars must be won or lost and there's no third alternative.

We cannot win merely by keeping the foe at arm's length.

We can never gain victory solely by postponing defeat."

Suddenly and emphatically he slammed a heavy fist on his desk

and made a pen leap two feet into the air. "We've got to do

more than that. We've got to seize the initiative and get the

enemy fiat on his back while we beat the bejazus out of him."

"But we'll get around to that in due course, won't we?"

"Maybe," said Wolf. "Or maybe not. It depends."

"Depends upon what?"

"Whether we make full and intelligent use of our resources,

especially people - meaning people such as you."

"You could be more specific," Mowry suggested.

"Look, in technical matters we are ahead of the Sirian

Combine, a little ahead in some respects and far ahead in

others. That gives us the advantage of, better weapons, more

efficient armaments. But what the public does not know -

because nobody has seen fit to tell them - is that the Sirians

also have an advantage. They outnumber us by twelve to one

and outweigh us by material in the same proportion."

"Is that a fact?”

"Unfortunately it is, though our propagandists don't bother

to mention it. Our war-potential is superior qualitatively. The

Sirians have superiority quantitatively. That's a very serious

handicap to us. We've got to counter it in the best way we

know how. It won't be done by playing for time while we

make the effort to breed like flies."

"I see." Mowry gnawed his bottom lip, looked thoughtful.

"However," Wolf went on, "the problem becomes less formidable

than it looks if we bear in mind that one man can shake

a government, two men temporarily can put down an army

twenty-seven thousands strong, or one small wasp can slay

four comparative giants and destroy their huge machine into

the bargain." He paused, watching the other for effect,

continued, "Which means that by scrawling suitable words upon

a wall, the right man in the right place at the right time might

immobilise an armoured division with the aid of nothing more

than a piece of chalk."

"You're concocting a pretty unorthodox form of warfare."

"So much the better."

"I am sufficiently perverse to like such methods. They appeal

to me."

"We know," said Wolf. He took a file from his desk, thumbed

through it. "Upon your fourteenth birthday You were fined

one hundred Sirian guilders for expressing your opinion of

an official, upon a wall, in letters twenty inches high. Your

father apologised on your behalf and pleaded the impetuosity

of youth. The Sirians were annoyed but let the matter drop."

"Razaduth was a scheming, pot-bellied liar and I say it

again." Mowry eyed the file. "That my life-story you've got

there?"

"Yes."

"Nosey lot, aren't you?"

"We have to be. Regard it as part of the price to be paid

for survival" Shoving the file to one side, Wolf informed,

"We've a punched card for every Terran in existence. In no

time worth mentioning we can sort out electronically all those

who have false teeth, or wear size eleven shoes, or had red-

haired mothers, or can be relied upon to try dodge the draft.

Without trouble we can extract any specified type of sheep

from the general mass of sheep and goats."

"And I am a specified sheep?"

"Speaking metaphorically, of course. No insult is intend."

His face gave a craggy twitch that was the nearest it could

come to a smile. "We first dug out about sixteen thousand

completely fluent speakers of the several Sirian dialects.

Eliminating the females and children brought the number

down to nine thousand. Then, step by step, we cut out the

elderly, the infirm, the weak, the untrustworthy, the

temperamentally unsuitable, those too short, too tall, too fat,

too thin, too stupid, too rash, too cautious, and so forth.

We weren't left with many among whom to seek for wasps."

"What defines a wasp?"

"Several things - but mostly a shorty who can walk slightly

bandy-legged with his ears pinned back and his face dyed

purple. In other words, one who can play the part of a native-

born Sirian and do it well enough to fool the Sirians."

"Never!" exclaimed Mowry. "Never in a month of Sundays!

I'm pink, I've got wisdom teeth and my ears stick out."

"The surplus. teeth can be pulled. Surgical removal of a

sliver of cartilage will fasten your ears back good and tight,

leaving no visible evidence of the operation. Painless and easy,

with complete healing in two weeks. That is medical evidence;

so don't argue it." Again the craggy twitch. "As for the purple

complexion, its nothing startling: There are some Terrans a

good deal more purple-faced than any Sirian, they having

acquired the colour via many gallons of booze. We can fix

you up with a dye guaranteed firm for four months, also a

retinting kit that will enable you to carry on as much longer

as may be necessary."

"But -"

"Listen to me. You were born in Masham, capital city of

Diracta which is the Sirian home planet. Your father was a

trader there at the time. You lived on Diracta until age

seventeen when you returned with your parents to Terra. Luckily

you happen to be a half-pint of just about Sirian size and

build. You are now twenty-six and still speak perfect Sirian

with a decided Mashambi accent which, if anything, is an

advantage. It lends plausibility. About fifty million Sirians

speak with Mashambi accents. You're a natural for the job

we have in mind"

"What if I invite you to thrust the job right up the air-shaft?"

asked Mowry, with great interest.

"I would regret it," said Wolf, coldly, "because in time of

war it is an old, well-founded adage that one volunteer is

worth a thousand conscripts."

"Meaning I'd get my call-up papers?" Mowry made a gesture

of irritation. "Damn! - I'd rather walk into something

of my own accord than be frog marched into it"

"So it says here," informed Wolf, motioning toward the file.

"James Mowry, twenty-six, restless and pigheaded.- can be

trusted to do anything at all-provided the alternative is

worse."

"Sounds like my father. Did he tell you that."

"The Service does not reveal its sources of information."

"Humph!" He pondered a little while, asked "Suppose I

volunteer, what follows?"

"We'll send you to a school. It runs a special course that is

fast and tough ~ and takes six to eight weeks. 'You'll be

crammed to the gills with everything likely to be useful to

you: weapons, explosives, sabotage, psychological warfare,

map reading, compass reading, camouflage, judo, radio

techniques and maybe a dozen other subjects. By the time

they've finished with you, you'll be fully qualified

to function as a complete and absolute pain-in-the-neck."

"And after that?"

"You will be dropped surreptitiously upon a Sirian held

planet and be left to make yourself as awkward as possible."

There was a lengthy silence at the end of which Mowry gave

begrudgingly, "Once when my father was thoroughly aggravated

he said, "Son, you were born a fool and you'll die a

fool." He let go a long, deep sigh. "The old man was dead

right. I hereby volunteer."

"We knew you would," said Wolf, imperturbably.

He saw Wolf again, that being two days after he had

finished the arduous course and passed with satisfactory

marks. Wolf arrived at the school, visited him in his room.

"What was it like?"

"Sheer sadism,” said Mowry, pulling a face. "So almighty

tough that I'm beaten up in mind and body. I feel like a

half stunned cripple."

You'll have plenty of time to get over that. The journey

will take long enough. You're leaving Thursday."

"For where?"

"Sorry, I can't tell you. Your pilot carries sealed orders to

be opened only on the last lap. In case of accident or

successful interception he destroys them unread."

"What's the likelihood of us being grabbed on the way

there?"

"Not great. Your ship will be. considerably faster than

anything the enemy possesses. But even the best of vessels can

get into trouble once in a while. We're taking no chances. You

know the stinking reputation of the Sirian Security Police,

the Kaitempi. They can make a slab of granite grovel and

confess its sins. If they snatch you en route and learn your

intended destination they'll take counter-measures and try

to trap your successor on arrival."

"My successor? raises a question nobody here seems

to answer. you can tell me, huh?"

"What is it?"

"Will I be entirely on my own? Or will other Terrans be

operating on the same planet? If there will be others how

shall I make contact?"

"So far as you're concerned you'll be the only Terran for

a hundred million miles around," responded Wolf. "You will

have no contacts. By the same token, you won't be able to

betray anyone to the Kaitempi. Nothing they can do will

extract from you information that you don't possess. Maybe

you'll sweat and scream and invent stuff to make them lay

off, but it won't be genuine information."

"It would sound better if you didn't smack your lips over

the horrid prospect," reproved Mowry. "Anyway, it would be

some comfort and encouragement to know that other wasps

are similarly active even if only one to a planet."

"You didn't go through this course all on your ownsome,

did you? The others weren't here merely to provide company

for you." Wolf held out a hand: "Good hunting, be a curse to.

the foe - and come back."

"I shall return," assured Mowry; "though the way be flinty

and the road be long."

That, he thought as Wolf departed, was more of a pious

hope than a performable promise. To be dropped single-

handed upon a hostile planet was to be plunged neck-deep

into a genuinely menacing situation. Casualties could be

expected sooner or later. Indeed, Wolf's remark about 'your

successor' showed that losses had been anticipated and steps

taken to provide replacements..

It then occurred to him that perhaps his own status was

that of somebody else's successor. Maybe on the world to

which he was going some unlucky character had been trapped

and pulled apart very slowly. If so, it would be a world

fore-warned and ready for him. Right now the Kaitempi would

be watching the skies, licking their chops in anticipation of

their next victim, a dope named James Mowry, twenty-six,

restless and pigheaded.

Oh, well, he had committed himself and there was no backing

out. Looked like he was doomed to become a hero from

sheer lack of courage to be a coward. Slowly he developed a

philosophic resignation which still possessed him several

weeks later when the corvette's captain summoned him to

the mid-cabin.

"Sleep well?"

"Not in the last spell," Mowry admitted. "The propulsors

were noisier than usual, the whole ship shuddered and

creaked. I spent most of the time lying in my bunk and

inventing new cuss-words."

The captain gave a wry smile. "You didn't know it, but we

were being chased by four Sirian destroyers. We hit up top

speed and lost them"

"You sure they aren't still tracking us?"

"They've fallen behind range of our detectors, therefore

we're beyond range of theirs."

"Thank heavens for that," said Mowry.

"I've opened the orders. We're due to arrive in forty-eight

Earth-hours."

"Where?"

"On a planet called Jaimec. Ever heard of it?"

"Yes, the Sirian news-channels used to mention it every

once in a while. It's one of their outpost worlds if I remember

aright, under-populated and not half developed. I never met

anyone from there and so don't know much about it." He

registered mild annoyance. "This secretiveness is all very well,

but it would help a fellow some to let him know where he's

going and give him some useful information about the place

before he gets there. Ignorance could prove damn dangerous;

it might cost me my neck. Maybe I'm finicky but I value my

neck."

"You'll land with all the data we've got," soothed the captain.

"They've supplied a stack of stuff along with the orders."

He put a wad of papers on the table, also several maps and

a number of large photographs. Then he pointed to a cabinet

standing against a wall. "That's the stereoscopic viewer. Use

it to search these pics for a suitable landing place. The choice

is wholly yours. My job is to put you down safely wherever

you choose and get away undetected."

"How long have I got?"

"You must show me the selected spot not later than forty

hours from now."

"And how long can you allow for dumping me and my

equipment?"

"Twenty minutes maximum. Positively no more. I'm sorry

about that but it can't be helped. If we sit on the ground and

take it easy we'll leave unmistakable signs of our landing, a

whacking big rut that can soon be spotted by air patrols and

will get the hunt after you in full cry. So we'll have to use

the antigravs and move fast. The antigravs soak up power.

Twenty minutes output is the most we can afford."

"All right." Mowry gave a shrug of resignation, took up

the papers and started reading them as the captain went out.

Jaimec, ninety-fourth planet of the Sirian Empire. Mass

seven-eighths that of Terra. Land area about half that of

Terra's, the rest being ocean. First settled two and a half

centuries ago. Present population estimated at about eighty

millions. Jaimec had cities, railroads, spaceports and all the

other features of alien civilisation. Nevertheless, much of it

remained undeveloped, unexplored and in primitive condition.

He spent a good many hours making close, meticulous study

of the planet's surface as shown in the stereoscopic viewer,

meanwhile wondering how the big photos had been obtained.

Evidently someone had taken a considerable risk to play close

with an aerial camera. War had a hundred unsung heroes for

every one praised and draped with medals.

By the fortieth hour he had made his choice. It had not

been easy to reach a decision. Every seemingly suitable dropping

place had some kind of disadvantage, proving yet again

that the ideal hideout does not exist. One would be beautifully

positioned from the strategic viewpoint but lack adequate

cover. Another would have first-class natural concealment but

dangerous location.

The captain came in saying, "I hope you've picked a point

on the night-side, If it isn't, we'll have to dodge around until

dark and that's not good. The best technique is to go in and

get out before they've time to take alarm and organise a

counter-blow."

"This is it' Mowry indicated the place on a photo. "It's a

lot farther from a road than I'd have liked, about twenty miles

and all of it through virgin forest. Whenever I need something

out the cache it will take me a day's hard going to reach it,

maybe two days. But by the same token it should remain safe

from prying eyes and that's the prime consideration"

Sliding the photo into the viewer, the captain switched on

the interior lighting and looked into the rubber eyepiece. He

frowned with concentration.

"You mean that marked spot on the cliff?"

"No-it's at the cliff's base. See that outcrop of rock? What's

a fraction north of it?"

The captain stared again. "It's hard to tell for certain but it

looks mighty like a cave formation." He backed off, picked

up the intercom phone. "Hame, come here, will you?"

Hamerton, the chief navigator, arrived and studied the

photo, found the indicated point. He compared it with a two-

hemisphere map of Jaimec, made swift calculations.

"We'll catch it on the night-side but only by the skin of our

teeth"

"You sure of that?"

"If we went straight there we'd make it with a couple of

hours to spare. But we daren't go straight; their radar network

would plot the dropping-point to within half a mile. So we'll

have to dodge around below their radar horizon. Evasive

action takes time but with luck we can complete the drop

half an hour before sunrise."

"Let's go straight there," prompted Mowry. "It will cut your

risks and I'm willing to take a chance on being nabbed. I'm

taking the chance anyway, aren't I?"

"Nuts to that," retorted the captain. "We're so close that their

detectors are tracking us already. We're picking up their

identification-calls and we can't answer, not knowing their code.

Pretty soon it will sink into their heads that we're hostile.

They'll send up a shower of proximity-fused missiles, as usual

too late. The moment we dive below their radar horizon they'll

start a full-scale aerial search covering five hundred miles

around the point where we disappeared." He gave Mowry a

warning frown. "And you, chum, would be dead centre of that

circle."

"Looks like you've done this job a few times before."

prompted Mowry, hoping for a revealing response.

Refusing to take the bait, the captain continued, "Once

we're running just above tree-top level they can't track us

radar-wise. So we'll duck down a couple of thousand miles

from your dropping-point and make for there on a cockeyed.

course. It's my responsibility to dump you where you want

to be put without betraying you to the whole lousy world. If

I don't succeed the entire trip has been wasted. Leave this

to me, will you?"

"Sure," agreed Mowry, abashed. "Anything you say."

They went out, leaving him to brood. Presently the alarm-

gong clanged upon the cabin wall, he grabbed handholds and

hung on while the ship made a couple of violent swerves, first

one way, then the other. He could see nothing, hear nothing

save the dull moan of steering-jets, but his imagination

pictured a cluster of fifty ominous vapour-trails rising from

below, fifty long, explosive cylinders eagerly sniffing around

for the scent of alien metal.

Eleven more times the alarm sounded, followed at once by

aerial acrobatics. By now the ship resounded to the soft

whistle of passing atmosphere which built up to a faint howl

as it thickened.

Getting near now.

Mowry gazed absently at his fingers. They were steady but

sweaty. There were queer electric thrills running up and down

his spine. His knees felt weak and his stomach felt weaker.

He prayed for enough resolution to land without spewing in

plain sight of everybody. Hell of a hero he'd look if he did

that.

Far away across the void was a planet with a fully

comprehensive card-system and because of that he was about

to have his pointed head shoved into the lion's mouth.

Mentally he damned card-systems, those who'd invented them,

those who operated them. The cussing relieved his feelings

somewhat but did not restore strength to his knees.

With the arrival so close the philosophic resignation that

had sustained him had now evaporated. He fidgeted nervily

around, occasionally grabbing the handhold heartily wishing

the whole dirty business were done with and over.

By the time propulsion ceased and the ship stood silently

upon its antigravs above the selected spot he had generated

the fatalistic impatience of a man facing a major operation

that no longer can be avoided. He half-ran, half-slid down the

nylon ladder to ground. A dozen of the corvette's crew

followed, equally in a hurry but for different reasons. They

worked like maniacs, all the time keeping a wary eye upon

the sky.

Chapter II

THE CLIFF WAS part of an upthrust plateau rising four hundred

feet above the forest. At bottom were two caves, one wide and

shallow, one narrow but deep. Before the caves stretched a

beach of tiny pebbles at the edge of which a small stream

swirled and bubbled.

Cylindrical duralumin containers, thirty in all, were lowered

from the ship's belly to the beach, seized and carried to the

back of the deep cave, stacked so that the code numbers on

their lids faced the light. That done, the twelve scrambled

monkeylike up the ladder which was promptly reeled in. An

officer waved a hand from the open lock, shouted a last word

of encouragement.

"Give 'em hell, Sonny."

The corvette's tail snorted and whumped, making trees

wave their tops in a mile-long lane of superheated air. That

in itself added to the list of possible risks; if the leaves got

scalded, withered and changed colour, a scouting aeroplane

would view the phenomenon as a gigantic arrow pointing to

the cave. But it was a chance that had to be taken. With

swiftly increasing speed the big vessel went away, keeping low

and turning in the distance to follow the valley northward.

Watching it depart, Mowry knew that it would not yet head

straight for home. First the crew would take added chances

for his sake by zooming in plain view over a number of cities

and military strongholds. With luck this tactic might persuade

the enemy to jump to the conclusion that it was engaged in

photographic reconnaissance, that no surreptitious landing of

personnel had been intended or performed.

The testing time would come during the long hours of daylight

and already dawn was breaking to one side. Systematic

aerial search in the vicinity would prove that the enemy's

suspicions had been aroused in spite of the corvette's

misleading antics. Lack of visible search would not prove the

contrary because for all he knew the hunt might be up

elsewhere, in the wrong place far beyond his sight and hearing.

Full light would be needed for his trek through the forest

the depths of which were dark enough even at midday. While

waiting for the sun to rise he sat on a boulder and gazed in

the direction in which the ship had gone. He wouldn't have

that captain's job, he decided, for a sack of diamonds. And

probably the captain wouldn't have his for two sacks.

After an hour he entered the cave, opened a container, drew

from it a well-worn leather case of indisputable Sirian

manufacture. There'd be no sharp eyes noting something foreign-

looking about that piece of luggage; it was his own property

purchased in Masham, on Diracta, many years ago.

Making an easy jump across the little stream he went into

the forest and headed westward, frequently checking his

direction with the aid of a pocket compass. The going proved

rough but not difficult. The forest was wholly a forest and

not a jungle. Trees grew large and close together, forming a

canopy that shut out all but occasional glimpses of the sky.

Luckily, undergrowth was sparse. One could walk with ease

and at fast pace providing one took care not to fall over

projecting roots. Also, as he soon realised, progress was

helped quite a piece by the fact that on Jaimec his weight

was down by most of twenty pounds while his luggage was

raduced in the same proportion.

Two hours before sunset he reached the road, having

covered twenty miles with one stop for a meal and many brief

pauses to consult the compass. Behind a roadside tree he

upended the case, sat on it and enjoyed fifteen minutes rest

before making wary survey of the road. So far he'd heard no

planes or scout-ships snooping overhead in frantic search of

Terra's one-man task force. Neither was there any abnormal

activity upon the road; in fact during his wait nothing passed

along it in either direction.

Refreshed by the sit, he tidied himself, brushed dirt and

leaves from his shoes and pants,. reknotted his typical neck-

scarf as only a Sirian could knot it. Then he examined himself

in a steel mirror. His Earthmade copy of Sirian clothes would

pass muster, he had no doubt of that. His purple face, pinned-

back ears and Mashambi accent would be equally convincing.

But his greatest protection would be the mental block in every

Sirian's mind; they'd just naturally not think of an Earthman

masquerading as a Sirian because the idea was too ridiculous

to contemplate.

Satisfied that he fitted his role a hundred percent, he

emerged from the shelter of the trees, walked boldly across

the road and from the other side made careful study of his

exit from the forest. It was essential that he should be able

to remember it speedily and accurately. The forest was the

screen of camouflage around his bolt-hole and there was no

telling when he might need to dive into it in a deuce of a

hurry.

Fifty yards farther along the road stood an especially tall

tree with a peculiarly wrapped growth around its trunk and

a very gnarly branch formation. He fixed it firmiy in his mind

and for good measure lugged a tablet-shaped slab of stone

onto the grass verge and stood it upright beneath the tree.

The result resembled a lonely grave. He stared at the stone

and with no trouble at all could imagine words inscribed upon

it: James Mowry - Terran. Strangled by the Kaitempi. Could

be an omen, a forecast that already he had signed his own

death warrant. There was a compensatory comfort: he did not

believe in omens.

Dismissing ugly thoughts about the Kaitempi, he started

trudging along the road, his gait suggestive of a slight bow-

leggedness. From now on he must be wholly a Sirian,

physically and mentally, name of Shir Agavan, a forestry

surveyor employed by the Jaimec Ministry of Natural Resources,

therefore a government official and exempt from military service.

Or he could be anyone else so long as he remained plainly

and visibly a Sirian and could produce the papers to prove it.

He moved good and fast while slowly the sun sank toward

the horizon. He was going to thumb a lift, wanted one with

the minimum of delay but also wanted it as far as possible

from the point where he'd left tbe forest. It would be wise to

divert attention from the real scene of his appearance. Like

everyone else, Sirians had tongues. They talked. Others

listened. Some hard-faced characters had the full-time jobs

of listening, putting two and two together and without undue

strain arriving at four. His chief peril came not from guns

and garrotting-cords but from over-active tongues and alert

ears.

More than a mile had been covered before two dynocars

and one gas-truck passed him in quick succession all going

the opposite way. None of the occupants favoured him with

more than a perfunctory glance. Another mile went by before

anything came in his own direction. This was another gas-

truck, a big, dirty, lumbering monstrosity that wheezed and

grunted as it rolled along.

Standing by the verge, he waved it down, puttiug on an

air of arrogant authority that never failed to impress all

Sirians save those with more arrogance and authority. The truck

stopped jerkily and with a tailward boost of fumes. It was

loaded with about twenty tons of edible roots. Two Sirians

looked down at him from the cab. They were unkempt, their

clothes baggy and soiled.

"I am of the government," informed Mowry, giving the

staterment the right degree of importance. "I wish a ride into

town."

The nearest one opened the door, moved closer to the driver

and made room. Mowry climbed up, squeezed into the bench seat

which was a close fit for three. He held his case on his

knees. The truck emitted a loud bang and lurched forward

while the Sirian in the middle gazed dully at the case.

"You are a Mashamban, I think," ventured the driver,

conversationally.

"Correct. Seems we can't open our mouths without betraying

the fact"

"I have never been to Masham," continued the driver using

the sing-song accents peculiar to Jaimec. "I would like to go

there someday. It is a great place." He switched to his fellow

Sirian. "Isn't it, Snat?"

"Yar," said Snat, still mooning at the case.

"Besides, Masham or anywhere on Diracta should be a lot

safer than here. And perhaps I'd have better luck there. It

has been a bad day. It has been a stinking bad day. Hasn't

it, Snat?"

"Yar," said Snat.

"Why?" asked Mowry.

"This soko of a truck has broken down three times since

dawn. And it has stuck in the bog twice. The last time we

had to empty it to get it out, and then refill it. With the load

we've got that is work. Hard work." He spat out the window.

"Wasn't it, Snat?"

"Yar." said Snat, still half-dead from the effort.

"Too bad," Mowry sympathised.

"As for the rest, you know of it," said the driver, irefully.

"It has been a bad day."

"I know of what?" Mowry prompted.

"The news."

"I have been in the woods since sunup. One does not hear

news in the woods."

"The ten-time radio announced an increase in the war-tax.

As if we aren't paying enough. Then the twelve-time radio

said a Spakum ship had been zooming around. They had to

admit it because the ship was fired upon from a number of

places. We are not deaf when guns fire, nor blind when the

target is visible." He nudged his fellow. "Are we, Snat?"

"Nar," confirmed Snat.

"Just imagine that - a lousy Spakum ship sneaking around

over our very roof-tops. You know what that means: they

are seeking targets for bombing. Well, I hope none of them

get through. I hope every Spakum that heads this way runs

straight into a break-up barrage."

"So do I," said Mowry, squirting pseudo-patriotism out of

his ears. He gave his neighbour a dig in the ribs. "Don't you?"

"Yar," said Snat.

For the rest of the journey the driver maintained his paean

of anguish about the general lousiness of the day, the iniquity

of truck-builders, the menace and expense of war and the

blatant impudence of an enemy ship that had surveyed Jaimec

in broad daylight. All the time. Snat lolled in the middle of

the cab, gaped glassy-eyed at Mowry's leather case and

responded in monosyllables only when metaphorically beaten

over the head.

"This will do," announced Mowry as they trund1ed through

city suburbs and reached a wide crossroad. The truck stopped,

he got down. "Live long!"

"Live long!" responded the driver and tooled away.

He stood on the sidewalk and thoughtfully watched the

truck until it passed from sight. Well, he'd put himself to the

first minor test and got by without suspicion. Neither the

driver nor Snat had nursed the vaguest idea that he was what

they called a Spakum - literally a bed bug - an abusive term

for Terrans to which he'd listened with no resentment whatsoever.

Nor should he resent it: until further notice he was Shir

Agavan, a Sirian born and bred.

Holding tight to his case, he entered the city.

This was Pertane, capital of Jaimec, population a little more

than two millions. No other place on the planet approached

it in size. It was the centre of Jaimecan civil and military

administration, the very heart of the foe's planetary stronghold.

By the same token it was potentially the most dangerous

area in which a lone Terran could wander on the loose.

Reaching the downtown section, Mowry tramped around

until twilight, weighed up the location and external appearance

of several small hotels. Finally he picked one in a sidestreet

off the main stem. Quiet and modest-looking, it would

serve for a short time while he sought a better hideout. But

having reached a decision he did not go straight in.

First it was necessary to make up-to-the-minute check of

his papers lest anything wrong with them should put a noose

around his neck. The documents with which he had been

provided were microscopically accurate replicas of those valid

within the Sirian Empire nine or ten months ago. They might

have changed the format in the interim. To present for examination

papers obviously long out of date was to ask to be nabbed on

the spot.

He'd be trapped in an hotel, behind doors, with Sirians all

around. Better the open street where if it came to the worst

he could throw away his case along with his bandy-legged

gait and run like the devil in pursuit of a virgin. So he ambled

casually past the hotel, explored nearby streets until he found

a policeman. Glancing swiftly around, he marked his getaway

route and went up to the officer.

"Pardon, I am a newcomer." He said it stupidly, wearing an

expression of slight dopiness. "I arrived from Diracta a few

days ago."

"You are lost, hi?"

"No, officer, I am embarrassed." He fumbled in a pocket,

produced his identity-card, offered it for inspection. His leg

muscles were tensed in readiness for swift and effective flight

as he went on, "A Pertanian friend tells me that my card is

wrong because it must now bear a picture of my nude body.

This friend is a persistent prankster. I do not know whether

he is to be believed."

Frowning. the policeman examined the card's face, He

turned it over, studied its back. Then he returned it to Mowry.

"This card is quite in order. Your friend is a liar. There is

no such silly regulation. He would be wise to keep his mouth

shut." The frown grew deeper. "If he does not he will someday

regret it. The Kaitempi are rough with those who spread false

rumours."

"Yes, officer,' said Mowry, vastly relieved but looking suitably

frightened. `I shall warn him not to be a fool. May you

live long!"

"Live long!" said the policeman, curtly.

Hurrah! He went back to the hotel, walked in as though

he owned it, said to the clerk, "I wish a room with bath for

ten days."

"Your instrument of identity?"

He passed the card across.

The clerk wrote down its details, handed it back, reversed

the register on the counter and pointed to a line. "Sign here."

On taking the room his first act was to have a welcome

wash. Then he reviewed his position. He had reserved the

room for ten days but that was mere camouflage since he had

no intention of staying that long in a place so well surveyed

by official eyes. If Sirian habits held good for Jaimec he could

depend upon some snoop examining the hotel register and,

perhaps, asking awkward questions before the week was

through. He had all the answers ready - but the correct wasp-

tactic is not to be asked so long as it can be avoided.

He'd arrived too late in the day to seek and find better

sanctuary. Tomorrow would be well-spent hunting and finding

a rooming-house, preferably in a district where inhabitants

tended to mind their own business. Meanwhile he could put

in two or three hours before bedtime by exploring Pertane,

studying the lie of the land and estimating future possibilities.

Before starting out he treated himself to a hearty meal.

To a native-born Terran the food would have seemed strange

and somewhat obnoxious. But he ate it with gusto, its flavours

serving only to remind him of his childhood. It wasn't until

he had finished that it occurred to him to wonder whether

some other less well-equipped wasp had ever betrayed himself

by being sick at a Sirian table.

For the rest of the evening his exploration of Pertane was

not as haphazard as it looked. He wandered around with

seeming aimlessness, memorising all geographical features

that might prove useful to recall later on. But primarily he

was seeking to estimate the climate of public opinion with

particular reference to minority opinions.

In every war no matter how great a government's power

its rule is never absolute. In every war, no matter how

allegedly righteous the cause, the effort is never total. No

campaign has ever or will ever be fought with the leadership

united in favour of it and with the rank and file unitedly

behind them.

Always there is a disgruntled minority that opposes a war

for a multitude of reasons such as reluctance to make necessary

sacrifices, fear of personal loss or suffering, philosophical

and ethical objection to warfare as a method of settling disputes,

lack of confidence in the ability of the leadership, resentment

at being called upon to play a subordinate role, pessimistic

belief that victory is far from certain and defeat very

possible, egoistic satisfaction of refusing to run with the

herd, psychological opposition to being yelled at on any and

every petty pretext, a thousand and one other reasons.

No political or military dictatorship ever has been one hundred

percent successful in identifying and suppressing the

malcontents who, typically, conceal themselves behind a veil

of silence and bide their time. By sheer law of averages Jaimec

must have its share of such as these. And in addition to the

pacifists and quasi-pacifists were the criminal classes whose

sole concern in life was to snatch an easy profit while

dexterously avoiding involvement in anything deemed unpleasant

such as mass antics on a barrack square.

A wasp could make good use of all those who would not

heed the bugle-call nor follow the beat of the drum, Indeed,

even if it proved impossible to trace any of them and employ

them individually he could still exploit the fact of their very

existence. All that was necessary was first to satisfy himself

that there really was such a minority on Jaimec.

By midnight he was back at the hotel confident that in

Pertane there lived an adequate supply of scapegoats. On

buses and in bars he'd had fragmentary conversations with

about forty citizens and had overheard the talk of a hundred

more.

Not one had uttered a word definable as unpatriotic, much

less treacherous or subversive. Strong, deep-rooted fear of the

Kaitempi was more than enough to deter them from condemning

themselves out of their own mouths. But at least a tenth

of them had spoken with that vague, elusive air of having

more on their minds than they cared to state. In some cases

two of this type conversed together and when that happened

it was done with a sort of conspiratorial understanding that

any onlooker could recognise from fifty yards away but could

never produce as evidence before a military court

Yes, these - the objectors, the selfish, the greedy, the resentful,

the conceited, the moral cowards and the criminals -

could all be utilised for Terran purposes. When it isn't expedient

to use one's own strength, then is the time to exploit the

enemy's weakness.

While lying in bed and waiting for sleep to come, he mentally

enrolled the whole of this secret opposition in a mythical,

dreamed-up organisation called Dirac Angestun Gesept, the

Sirian Freedom Party. He then appointed himself the D.A.G.'s

president, secretary, treasurer and field-director for the

planetary district of Jaimec. The fact that the entire membership

was unaware of its status and had no hand in the election did

not matter a hoot. It was irrelevant.

Neither did it matter that sooner or later the aggravated

Kaitempi would start organising the collection of members

dues in the form of strangled necks, or that some members

might be so lacking in enthusiasm for the cause as to resist

payment. If some Sirians could be given the full-time job of

hunting down and garrotting other Sirians, and if other Sirians

could be given the full-time job of dodging or shooting down

the garrotters, then a distant and different lifeform would be

saved a few unpleasant chores.

With that happy thought James Mowry alias Shir Agavan

dozed off. His breathing was suspiciously slow and irregular

for the purple-faced lifeform he was supposed to be, his snores

were abnormally low-pitched and he snoozed flat on his back

instead of lying on his belly. But in the privacy of this room

there were none to hear and see a Terran with his defenses

momentarily down.

When one man is playing the part of an invading army the

essential thing is to move fast, make full use of any and every

opportunity, waste no effort. Mowry had to traipse around the

city to find a better hideout. It was equally necessary to go

hither and thither to make the first moves in his game. So

he combined the two purposes.

He unlocked his bag, opening it carefully with the aid of

a special non-conducting plastic key. Despite that he knew

exactly what he was doing a thin trickle of sweat ran down:

his spine while he did it. The lock was not as innocent as it

looked, n fact it was a veritable death-trap. He could never

quite get rid of the feeling that one of these days it might

forget that a plastic key is not a metal lock-pick. If ever it did

so blunder the resulting blast-area would have a radius of one

hundred yards.

Apart from the lethal can wired to the lock, the bag held

a dozen small parcels, a mass of printed paper and nothing

else. The paper was of two kinds: stickers and money. There

was plenty of the latter. In terms of Sirian guilders he was, a

millionaire. Or with the further supply in that distant cave he

was a multi-millionaire.

From the bag he took an inch-thick wad of printed stickers.

Not too many of them. Just enough for a day's fast work and,

at the same time, few enough to toss away unobserved should

the necessity arise. That done, he refastened the bag with the

same care, the same beading of perspiration.

It was a tricky business, this continual fiddling with a

potential explosion, but it had one great advantage. If any

official nosey-poke took it into his head to search the room and

check the luggage he would destroy the evidence along with himself.

Moreover, proof of what had happened would be widespread

enough to give clear warning to the homecomer: Mowry

would turn into the street, take one look at the mess and

discreetly fade from sight.

Departing, he caught a cross-town bus, planted the first

sticker on the front window of its upper deck at a moment

when all other seats were vacant. He dismounted at the next

stop, casually watched a dozen people boarding the bus. Half

of them went upstairs.

The sticker said in bold, easily readable print: War makes

wealth for the few, misery for the many. At the right time

Dirac Angestun Gesept will punish the former, bring aid and

comfort to the latter.

That would hit the readers much harder than it would have done

a month ago. It was sheer luck that he'd arrived coincidentally

with a big boost in the war-tax. It was likely they'd

feel sufficiently aggrieved not to tear the sticker down in a

patriotic fury. Chances were equally good that they'd spread

the news about this new, mysterious movement that had

emerged to challenge the government, the military caucus

and the Kaitempi. The tale would lose nothing in the telling:

gossip is the same any part of the mighty cosmos in that it

gains compound interest as it goes the rounds.

Within five and a half hours he'd got rid of eighty stickers

without once being caught in the act of fixing them. He'd

taken a few risks, had a few narrow squeaks, but never was

seen actually performing the dirty deed. What followed the

Planting of the fifty-sixth sticker gave him most satisfaction.

A minor collision on the street caused abusive shouts

between drivers and drew a mob of onlookers. Taking prompt

advantage of the situation, Mowry slapped number fifty-six

bang in the middle of a shop window while backed up against

it by the crowd all of whom were looking the other way. He

then wormed himself forward and got well into the mob before

somebody noticed the window's adornment and attracted

general attention to it. The audience turned around, Mowry

with them, and gaped at the discovery.

The finder, a gaunt, middle-aged Sirian with pop eyes,

pointed an incredulous finger and stuttered, "Just l-l-look at

that! They must be m-mad in that shop. The Kaitempi will

take them all to p-p-prison."

Mowry edged forward for a better look and read the sticker

aloud. "Those who stand upon the platform and openly

approve the war will stand upon the scaffold and weepingly

regret it. Dirac Angestun Gesept." He put on a frown. "The

people in the shop can't be responsible for this - they wouldn't

dare."

"S-somebody's dared," said Pop Eyes, quite reasonably.

"Yar." Mowry gave him the hard eye. "You saw it first. So

maybe it was you, hi?"

"Me?" Pop Eyes went a very pale mauve, that being the

nearest a Sirian could get to sheet-white. "I didn't put it there.

You think I'm c-crazy?"

"Well, as you said, somebody did."

"It wasn't me," denied Pop Eyes, angry and agitated. "It must

have been s-some crockpat"

"Crackpot," Mowry corrected.

"That's what I just s-said."

Another Sirian, younger and shrewder, chipped in with,

"That's not a looney's work. There's more to it than that."

"Why?" demanded Pop Eyes.

"A solitary nut would be more likely to scribbie things.

Silly ones too" He nodded indicatively toward the subject of

discussion. "That's a professional print job. It's also a plain.

straightforward threat. Somebody risked his neck to plaster

it up there but that didn't stop him. I'll bet there's an illegal

organisation back of that stunt"

"It says so, doesn't it?" interjected a voice. "The Sirian

Freedom Party."

"Never heard of it," commented another.

"You've heard of it now," said Mowry.

"S-s-somebody ought to do s-something about it," declared

Pop Eyes, waving his arms around.

S-s-somebody did, to wit, a cop. He muscled through the

crowd, looked on the pavement for the body, bent down and

felt around in case the victim happened to be invisible. Finding

nothing, he straightened up, glowered at the audience and

growled, "Now, what's all this?"

Pop Eyes pointed again, this time with the proprietary air

of one who has been granted a patent on the discovery. "S-see

what it s-says on the window."

The cop looked and saw. Being able to read, he perused

it twice while his face went several shades more purple. Then

he returned attention to the crowd.

"Who did this?"

Nobody knew.

"You've got eyes - don't you use them?"

Apparently they didn't.

"Who saw this first?"

"I did," said Pop Eyes proudly.

"But you didn't see anyone put it up?"

"No"

The cop stuck out his jaw. "You sure of that?"

"Yes, officer," admitted Pop Eyes, becoming nervous. "There

was an accident in the s-street. We were all watching the two

d-d-d-" He got himself into a vocal tangle and choked.

Waving him away, the cop addressed the crowd with considerable

menace. "If anyone knows the identity of the culprit

and refuses to reveal it, he will be deemed equally guilty and

will suffer equally when caught."

Those in front backed off a yard or two, those in the rear

suddenly discovered they had business elsewhere. A hard core

of thirty of the incurably curious stayed put, Mowry among

them.

Mowry said mildly, "Maybe they could tell you something

in the shop"

The cop scowled. "I know my job, Shortass."

With that, he gave a loud snort, marched into the shop and

bawled for the manager. In due course that worthy came out,

examined his window with horror and swiftly acquired all the

symptoms of a nervous wreck.

"We know nothing of this, officer. I assure you that it is no

work of ours. It isn't inside the window, officer. It is outside,

as you can see. Some passer-by must have done it. I cannot

imagine why he should have picked on this window. Our

patriotic devotion is unquestioned and ---"

"Won't take the Kaitempi five seconds to question it," said

the cop, cynically.

"But I myself am a reserve officer in the ----"

"Shut up!" He jerked a heavy thumb toward the offending

sticker. "Get it off."

"Yes, officer. Certainly, officer. I shall remove it immediately."

The manager started digging with his nails at the sticker's

corners in attempt to peel it off. He didn't do so good because

Terran technical superiority extended even to common adhesives.

After several futile efforts he threw the cop an apologetic

looks, went inside, came out with a knife and tried again.

This time he succeeded in tearing a small triangle from each

corner, leaving the message intact.

"Get hot water and soak it off," commanded the cop, rapidly

losing patience. He turned and shooed the audience. "Beat it.

Go on, get moving."

The crowd mooched reluctantly away. Mowry glanced back

from the far corner, saw the manager emerge with a steaming

bucket and get busy swabbing the notice. He grinned to himself,

knowing that hot water was just the thing to release and

activate the hydrofluoric base beneath the print.

Continuing on his way, Mowry disposed of two more

stickers where they'd best be seen and cause the most annoyance.

It would take twenty minutes for water to free number

fifty-six and at the end of that time he couldn't resist returning

to the scene. Going back on his tracks, he ambled past the

shop.

Sure enough the sticker had disappeared while in its place

the same message was etched deeply and milkily in the glass.

The cop and the manager were now arguing heatedly upon

the sidewalk with half a dozen citizens gaping alternately at

them and the window.

As Mowry loped past the cop bawled, "I don't care if the

window is valued at two thousand guilders. You've got to

board it up or replace the glass. One thing or the other and

no half-measures."

But, officer -"

"Do as you're told. To exhibit subversive propaganda is a

major offence whether intentional or not. There's a war on!"

Mowry wandered away, unnoticed, unsuspected, with

eighteen stickers yet to be used before the day was through.

By dusk he'd disposed of them all without mishap. He had

also found himself a suitable hideaway.

Chapter III

AT THE HOTEL he stopped by the desk and spoke to the clerk.

"This war, it makes things difficult. One can plan nothing with

certainty." He made the hand-splaying gesture that was the

Sirian equivalent of a shrug. "I must leave tomorrow and

may be away seven days. It is a great nuisance."

"You wish to cancel your room, Mr. Agavan?"

"No. I reserved it for ten days and will pay for ten." Dipping

into his pocket he extracted a wad of guilders. "I shall then be

able to claim it if I get back in time. If I don't, well; that'll

be my hard luck."

"As you wish, Mr. Agavan." Indifferent to the throwing away

of good money so long as it was somebody else's, the other

scribbled a receipt, handed it over.

"Thanks," said Mowry. "Live long!"

"May you live long." He gave the response in dead tones,

not caring if the customer expired on the spot.

Mowry went to the restaurant and ate. Then to his room

where he lay full length on the bed and gave his feet a much

needed rest while he waited for darkness to become complete.

When the last streamers of sunset had faded away he took

another pack of stickers from his case, also a piece of crayon,

and departed.

The task was lots easier this time. Poor illumination helped

cover his actions, he was now familiar, with the locality and

the places most deserving of his attentions, he was not diverted

by the need to find another and safer address. For more than

four hours he could concentrate single-mindedly upon the job

of defacing walls and making a mess of the largest, most

expensive sheets of plate glass that daytimes were prominently

in public view.

Between seven-thirty and midnight he slapped exactly one

hundred stickers on shops, offices and vehicles of the city

transport system, also inscribed swiftly, clearly and in large

size the letters D.A.G. upon twenty-four walls.

The latter feat was performed with Terran crayon, a deceitfully

chalk-like substance that made full use of the porosity

of brick when water was applied. In other words, the more

furiously it was washed the more stubbornly it became embedded.

There was only one sure way of obliterating the offensive

letters - to knock down the entire wall and rebuild it.

In the morning he breakfasted, walked out with his case,

ignored a line of waiting dynocars and caught a bus. He

changed buses nine times, switching routes one way or the

other and heading nowhere in particular. Five times he

travelled without his case which reposed awhile in a rented

locker. This tedious rigmarole may not have been necessary

but there was no way of telling; it was his duty not only to

avoid actual perils but also to anticipate hypothetical ones.

Such as this: "Kaitempi check. Let me see the hotel register.

H'm! - much the same as last time. Except for this Shir

Agavan. Who is he, hi?"

"A forestry surveyor."

"Did you get that from his identity-card?"

"Yes, officer. It was quite in order."

"By whom is he employed?"

"By the Ministry of Natural Resources."

"Was his card embossed with the Ministry's stamp?"

"I don't remember. Maybe it was. I can't say for sure."

"You should notice things like that. You know full well

that you'll be asked about them when the check is made."

"Sorry, officer, but I can't see and remember every item that

comes my way in a week."

"You could try harder. Oh. well, I suppose this Agavan

character is all right. But maybe I'd better get confirmation if

only to show I'm on the job. Give me your phone." A call, a

few questions, the phone slammed down, then in harsh tones,

"The Ministry has no Shir Agavan upon its roll. The fellow

is using a fake identity-card. When did he leave the hotel?

Did he look agitated when he went? Did he say anything to

indicate where he was going? Wake up, you fool, and answer!

Give me the key to his room - it must be searched at once:

Did he take a dynocar when he departed? Describe him to

me as fully as you can. So he was carrying a case? What sort

of a case, hi?"

That was the kind of chance that must be taken when one

holes up in known and regularly checked haunts. The risk

was not enormous, in fact it was small - but it was still there.

And when tried, sentenced and waiting for death it is no

consolation to know that what came off was a hundred to one

chance. To keep going and to maintain the one-man battle

the enemy had to be outwitted, if possible, all along the line

and all the time.

Satisfied that by now the most persistent of snoops could

not follow his tortuous trail through the city, Mowry retrieved

his case, lugged it up to the third floor of a crummy tenement

building, let himself into his suite of two sour-smelling rooms.

The rest of the day he spent cleaning the place up and making

it fit to live in.

He'd be lots harder to trace here. The shifty-eyed landlord

had not asked to see his identity-card, had accepted him

without question as Gast Hurkin, a low-grade railroad official,

honest, hard-working and stupid enough to pay his rent

regularly and on time. To the landlord's way of thinking the

unsavoury neighbours rated a higher I.Q. - in terms of that

environment - being able to get a crust with less effort and

remaining tight-mouthed about how they did it.

Housework finished, Mowry bought a paper, sought through

it from front to back for some mention of yesterday's activities,

There wasn't a word on the subject. At first he felt disappointed,

then on further reflection he became heartened.

Opposition to the war and open defiance of the government

definitely made news that justified a front-page spread. No

reporter, no editor would pass it up if he could help it.

Therefore the papers had passed it up because they could not help

it. They'd had no choice about the matter. Somebody high in

authority had clamped down upon them with the heavy hand

of censorship. Somebody with considerable power had been

driven into making a weak countermove.

That was a start, anyway. His first waspish buzzings had

forced authority to interfere with the press. What's more, the

countermove was feeble and ineffective. It wouldn't work. It

was doomed to failure, serving only as a stopgap while they

sat around and beat their brains for more decisive measures.

The more persistently a government maintains silence on a

given subject of discussion, the more the public talks about

it, thinks about it. The longer and more stubborn the silence

the guiltier it looks to the talkers and thinkers. In time of war

the most morale-lowering question that can be asked is,

`What are they hiding from us now?'

Some hundreds of citizens would be asking themselves that

same question tomorrow, the next day or the next week. The

potent words Dirac Angestun Gesept would be on a multitude

of lips, milling around in a like number of minds, merely

because the powers-that-be were afraid to talk.

And if a government fears to admit even the pettiest facts

of war, how much faith can the common man place in the

leadership's claim not to be afraid of anything? Hi?

A disease gains in menace when it spreads, popping up in

places far apart and taking on the characteristics of an

epidemic. For that reason Mowry's first outing from his new

abode was to Radine, a town two-forty miles south of Pertane.

Population three hundred thousand, hydro-electric power,

bauxite mines, aluminum extraction plants.

He caught an early morning train. It was overcrowded with

all those people compelled to move around by the various

needs of war: sullen workers, bored soldiers, self-satisfied

officials, colourless nonentities. The seat facing him was

occupied by a heavy-bellied character with bloated, porcine

features, a caricaturist's idea of the Jaimec Minister of Food.

The train set off, hit up a fast clip. People piled in and out

at intermediate stations. Pigface contemptuously ignored

Mowry, watched the passing landscape with lordly disdain,

finally fell asleep and let his mouth hang open. He was twice

as hoglike in his slumbers and would have attained near-

perfection with a lemon between his teeth.

Thirty miles from Radine the door from the coach ahead

slammed open, a civilian policeman entered. He was accompanied

by two burly, hard-faced characters in plain clothes.

This trio halted by the nearest passenger.

"Your ticket," demanded the cop.

The passenger handed it over, his expression scared. The

policeman examined it front and back, passed it to his

companions who studied it in turn.

"Your identity-card."

That got the same treatment, the cop looking it over as if

doing a routine chore, the other two surveying it more

critically and with concealed suspicion.

"Your movement permit."

It passed the triple scrutiny, was given back along with the

ticket and identity-card. The recipient's face showed vast

relief, The cop picked on the passenger sitting next to him.

"Your ticket,"

Mowry, seated two-thirds the way along the coach, observed

this performance with much curiosity and a little apprehension.

His feelings boosted to alarm when they reached the seventh

passenger.

For some reason best known to themselves the tough-looking

pair in plain clothes gazed longer and more intently at

this one's documents. Meanwhile, the passenger developed

visible signs of agitation. They stared at his strained face,

weighing him up. Their own features wore the hungry

expressions of predatory animals about to tear down a victim.

"Stand up!" barked one of them.

The passenger shot to his feet and stood quivering. He

swayed slightly and it was not due to the rocking of the train.

While the cop looked on, the two frisked the passenger with

speed and professional thoroughness. They took things out

of his pockets, pawed them around, shoved them back. They

patted his clothes all over, showing no respect for his person.

Finding nothing of significance, one of them muttered an

oath then yelled at the victim, "Well, what's giving you the

shakes?"

"I don't feel so good," said the passenger, feebly.

"Is that so? What's the matter with you?"

"Travel sickness. I always get this way in trains."

"It's a story, anyway." He glowered at the other, lost patience

and made a careless gesture. "All right, you can sit"

At that the passenger collapsed into his seat and breathed

heavily. He had the mottled complexion of one almost sick

from fear and relief. The cop eyed him a moment, let go a

sniff and turned attention to number eight.

"Ticket."

There were ten more to be chivvied before these inquisitors

reached Mowry. He was willing to take a chance on his documents

passing muster but he dared not risk a search. The cop was

just a plain, ordinary cop. The other two were members of

the all-powerful Kaitempi; if they dipped into his pockets

the balloon would go up once and for all. And in due time,

when on Terra it was realised that his silence was the silence

of the grave, a cold-blooded specimen named Wolf would give

with the sales talk to another sucker.

"Turn around. Walk bow-legged. We want you to become

a wasp."

By now most of the passengers were directing their full

attention along the aisle, watching what was going on and

meanwhile trying to ooze an aura of patriotic rectitude.

Mowry slid a surreptitious look at Pigface who was still lolling

opposite with head hanging on chest and mouth wide open.

Were those sunken little eyes really closed or were they watching

him between narrowed lids?

Short of pushing his face right up against the other's unpleasant

countenance he couldn't tell for certain. But it made no

difference, the trio were edging nearer every moment and he

had to take a risk. Furtively he felt behind him, found a tight

but deep gap in the upholstery where the bottom of the backrest

met the rear of the seat. Keeping his attention riveted

upon Pigface, he edged a pack of stickers and two crayons

out of his pocket, crammed them into the gap, poking them

well out of sight. The sleeper opposite did not stir or blink

an eyelid.

Two minutes later the cop gave Pigface an irritable shove

on the shoulder and that worthy woke up with a snort. He

glared at the cop, then at the pair in plain clothes.

"So! What is this?"

"Your ticket," said the cop.

"A traffic check, hi?" responded Pigface; showing sudden

understanding. "Oh, well -" Inserting fat fingers in a vest

pocket he took out an ornate card embedded in a slice of

transparent plastic. This he exhibited to the trio as if it were

the equivalent of the keys to the kingdom. The cop stared at

it and became servile. The two toughies stiffened like raw

recruits caught dozing on parade.

"Your pardon; Major," apologised the cop.

"It is granted," assured Pigface, showing a well-practised

mixture of arrogance and condescension. "You are only doing

your duty." He favoured the rest of the coach with a beam

of triumph born of petty power, openly enjoying the situation

and advertising himself as being several grades above

common herd.

Eyeing him with concealed dislike, Mowry became obsessed

with the notion that some buttocks have been designed by

Nature specifically to be kicked good and hard and that such

a target was within foot-reach right now. His right shoe got

the fidgets at the thought of it but he kept it firmly on the

floor.

Leery and embarrassed, the cop switched to Mowry, said,

"Ticket."

Mowry handed it over, striving to look innocent and bored.

Pseudo-nonchalance didn't come easy because now he was

the focal point of the coach's battery of eyes. Almost all the

other passengers were looking his way, Pigface was surveying

him speculatively and the two Kaitempi agents were giving

him the granite-hard stare.

"Identity-card."

That got passed across.

"Movement permit."

He surrendered it, braced himself for the half-expected

command of, "Stand up!"

It did not come. Anxious to get away from the fat Major's

cold, official gaze, the three examined the papers, handed them

back without comment and moved on. Mowry shoved the

documents into his pocket, tried to keep a great relief out of

his voice ras he spoke to the other.

"I wonder what they're after."

"It is no business of yours," said Pigface, as insultingly as

possible.

"No, of course not," agreed Mowry.

There was silence between them. Pigface sat mooning

through the window and showed no inclination to resume his

slumbers. Damn the fellow, thought Mowry, retrieving the

hidden stickers was going to prove difficult with that slob

awake and alert.

A door crashed shut as the cop and Kaitempi agents finished

with that coach and went through to the following one. A

minute later the train pulled up with such suddenness that a

couple of passengers were thrown from their seats. Outside

the train and farther back toward the rear end voices started

shouting.

Heaving himself to his feet, Pigface opened the window's

top half, stuck his head out and looked back toward the

source of the noise. Then with speed surprising in one so

cumbersome he whipped a gun from his pocket, ran along the

aisle and through the end door. Outside the bawling grew

louder.

Mowry got up and had a look through the window. Near

the tail of the train a small bunch of figures were running

alongside the track, the cop and the Kaitempi slightly in the

lead. As he watched, the latter swung up their right arms and

several sharp cracks rang through the morning air. It was

impossible to see at whom they were shooting.

Also beside the train, gun in hand, Pigface was pounding

heavily along in pursuit of the pursuers. Curious faces popped

out of windows all along the line of coaches. Mowry called

to the nearest face.

"What happened?"

"Those three came in to check papers. Some fellow saw

them, made a wild dash to the opposite door and jumped out.

They stopped the train and went after him."

"Was he hurt when he jumped?"

"Not by the looks of it. Last I saw of him he was diminishing

in the distance like a champion meika. He got a pretty.

good start. They'll be lucky to catch him."

"Who was he, anyway?"

"No idea. Some wanted criminal, I suppose."

"Well," offered Mowry; "if the Kaitempi came after me I'd

hotfoot it like a scared Spakum."

"Who wouldn't?" said the other.

Withdrawing, Mowry took his seat. All the other travellers

were at the windows, their full attention directed outside. This

was an opportune moment. He dug a hand into the hiding-

place, extracted the stickers and crayons, pocketed them.

The train stayed put for half an hour during which there

was no more excitement within hearing. Finally it jerked into

motion and at the same time Pigface reappeared and dumped

himself into his seat. His face was thunderous. He looked

sour enough to pickle his own hams.

"Did you catch him?" asked Mowry, lending his manner

all the politeness and respect he could muster.

Pigface bestowed a dirty look. "It is no business of yours."

"No, of course not," confirmed Mowry for the second time.

The previous silence came back and remained until the

train pulled into Radine. This being the terminus, everybody

got out. Mowry padded along with the mob through the

station exit but did not make a beeline for punishable

windows and walls.

Instead he followed Pigface.

Shadowing presented no great difficulty. Pigface behaved

as though the likelihood of being trailed would be the last

thing ever to enter his mind. He went his way with the arrogant

assurance of one who has the law in his pocket, all ordinary

persons being less than the dust beneath his chariot

wheel. In this respect his strength was his weakness, a fatal

weakness as he had yet to discover.

Immediately outside the station's arched entrance Pigface

turned right, plodded a hundred yards along the approach-

road to the car-park at the farther end. Here he stopped by

a long, green dynocar, felt in his pocket for keys.

Lingering in the shadow of a projecting buttress, Mowry

watched the quarry unlock the door and squeeze inside. He

hustled across the road to a taxi-stand, climbed into the

leading vehicle. The move was perfectly timed; he sank into

the seat just as the green dynocar whined past.

"Where to?" asked the taxi-driver.

"Can't tell you exactly," said Mowry, evasively. "I've been

here only once before and that was years ago. But I know the

way. Just follow my instructions"

The taxi's dynamo set up a rising hum as the machine sped

down the road while its passenger kept attention on the car

ahead and gave curt orders from time to time. It would have

been lots easier, he knew, to have pointed and said, "Follow

that green car." But that would have linked him in the driver's

mind with Pigface or at least with Pigface's green dyno. The

Kaitempi were experts at ferreting out such links and following

them to the bitter end. As it was, the taxi-driver had no

idea that he was shadowing anyone.

Swiftly the chaser and the chased threaded their way through

the centre of Radine until eventually the leader made a sharp

turn to the left and rolled down a ramp into the basement of

a large apartment building. Mowry let the taxi run

a couple of hundred yards farther on before he called a halt.

"This will do me." He got out, felt for money. "Nice to have

a good, dependable memory, isn't it?"

"Yar," said the driver. "One guilder six-tenths."

Mowry gave him two guilders, watched him cruise away.

Hastening back to the apartment building, he entered, took

an inconspicuous seat in its huge foyer, lay back and

pretended to be enjoying a semi-doze while waiting for

someone. There were several others sitting around none of

whom took the slightest notice of him.

Sure enough he'd not been there half a minute when Pigface

came into the other end of the foyer from a door leading to

the basement garage. Without so much as a glance around he

stepped into one of a bank of small automatic elevators. The

door slid shut. The illuminated telltale on the lintel winked a

succession of numbers, stopped at seven, held it awhile, then

winked downward to zero. The door glided open, showing

the box now empty.

After another five minutes Mowry yawned, stretched, consulted

his watch and went out. He paced along the street until

he found a phone booth. From it he called the apartment

building, got its switchboard operator.

"I was supposed to meet somebody in your foyer nearly an

hour ago," he explained. "I can't make it. If he's still waiting

I'd like him to be told I can't get along."

"Who is he?" asked the operator. "A resident?"

"Yes - but I've clean forgotten his name. Nobody is more

stupid than me about names. He is plump, got heavy features,

lives on the seventh floor. Major ... major ... what a soko

of a memory I've got!"

"That would be Major Sallana," the operator said.

"Correct," agreed Mowry. "Major Sallana - I had it at the

back of my mind all the time."

"Hold on. I'll see if he's still waiting." There followed a

minute's silence before the operator returned with, "No, he

isn't. I've just called his apartment and there's no reply. Do

you wish to leave a message for him?"

"It won't be necessary-he must have given me up. It's not

of great importance, anyway. Live long!"

"Live long!" said the operator.

So there was no reply from the apartment. Looked as if

Pigface had gone straight in and straight out again. Unless he

was lying in his bath and not inclined to answer the phone.

That didn't seem likely; he'd hardly had time to fill a tub,

undress and get into it. If he really was absent from his rooms

it meant that opportunity had presented itself so far as Mowry

was concerned and it was up to him to grab it while it was

there.

Despite an inward sense of urgency, Mowry paused long

enough to cope with other work. He looked through the

booth's glass, found himself unobserved. Then he slapped a

sticker on the facing window exactly where tireless talkers

could contemplate it while holding the phone.

It said: Power lovers started this war. Dirac Angestun

Gesept will end it - and them!

Returning to the apartments he strolled with deceitful

confidence across the foyer, stepped into an unoccupied lift. He

turned to face the open front, became conscious of someone

hurrying toward the bank, glanced that way and was aghast to

find Pigface approaching.

The fellow was wearing a ruminative scowl, hadn't yet seen

him but undoubtedly would do so unless he moved fast. At

once Mowry slammed the door and prodded the third button

on the panel. The elevator glided up to the third floor, stopped.

He kept it there, the door still shut, until he heard the whine

of an adjoining box passing him and going higher. Then he

dropped back to ground-level, left the building. He felt

thwarted and short-tempered and cursed his luck in a steady

undertone.

Between then and mid-evening he worked off his ire by

running around like mad, decorating Radine with one hundred

and twenty stickers and fourteen chalked walls. On no

occasion did anyone catch him at it though, as usual, he had

several narrow escapes.

Deciding to call it a day for that kind of work, he dropped

the remaining half-stick of crayon down a grid and thereby

increased his safety margin to some degree. If stopped and

searched they'd now find nothing on him immediately

recognisable as subversive material.

At the ten-time hour he champed through an overdue meal,

having eaten nothing since breakfast. That finished, he looked

up Sallana's number, called it, got no reply. Now was the

time. Repeating his earlier tactic, he went to the building, took

a lift to the seventh floor, this time without mishap. He trod

silently along the heavy carpet of the corridor, looking at

doors until he found one bearing the name he sought.

He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again, a fraction louder but not loud enough

to arouse others nearby.

Silence answered him.

This was where his hectic schooling came in. Taking from

his pocket a bunch of keys that looked quite ordinary but

weren't, he set to work on the lock, had the door open within

precisely thirty-five seconds. Speed was essential for that task

- if anyone had chosen that time to enter the corridor he'd

have been caught redhanded. Nobody did appear. He slipped

through the door, carefully closed it behind him.

His first act was to make swift survey of the rooms and

assure himself that nobody was lying around asleep or drunk.

There were four rooms, all vacant. Definitely Major Pigface

Sallana was not at home.

Returning to the first room, Mowry gave it a sharp examination,

spotted a gun lying atop a small filing cabinet. He

checked it, found it loaded, stuck it in his pocket.

Next, with expert technique he cracked open a big, heavy

desk and started raking through its drawers. The way he did

it had the sure, superfast touch of the professional criminal

but was in fact a tribute to his college training.

The contents of the fourth drawer on the left made his hair

stand on end. He had been seeking with the intention of

confiscating whatever it was that made cops servile and even

persuaded Kaitempi agents to stand to attention. Jerking open

the drawer, he found himself gazing at a neat stack of writing

paper bearing official print across its head.

This was more than he'd expected, more than he had hoped

for in his most optimistic moments. To his mind it proved

that despite his college lectures about caution, caution,

everlasting caution, it pays to play hunches and take chances.

What the paper's caption said was:

DIRAC KAIMINA TEMPITI.

Leshun Radine.

In other words: the Sirian Secret Police - District of

Radine. No wonder those thugs on the train had made ready

to grovel. Pigface was a Kaitempi brasshat and as such out-

ranked an army brigadier or even a space navy fleet leader.

This discovery upped the speed of his activity still further.

From the pile of luggage in the back room he seized a small

case, forced it open, tossed the clothing it contained onto the

floor. He dumped all the Kaitempi writing paper into the case.

A little later he found a small embossing machine, tested it,

found that it impressed the letters DKT surmounted by a

winged sword. That also went into the case.

Finishing with the desk he started on the adjacent filing

cabinet, his nostrils twitching with excitement as he worked

at its top drawer. A faint sound came to his ears, he stopped,

taut and listening. It was the scrape of a key in the door-lock.

The key failed to turn at the first attempt, tried again.

Mowry jumped toward the wall, flattened himself against

it where he'd be concealed by the opening door. The key

grated a second time, the lock responded, the door swung

across his field of vision as Pigface lumbered in.

Pigface took four paces into the room before his brain

accepted what his eyes could see. He came to a full stop, stared

incredulously and with mounting fury at the ransacked desk

while behind him the door drifted around and clicked shut.

Reaching a decision, he turned to go out and then saw the

invader.

"Good evening," greeted Mowry, flat-voiced.

"You?" Pigface glowered at him with outraged authority.

"What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?"

"I'm here as a common thief. The meaning is that you've

been robbed."

"Then let me tell you -"

"When robbery is done," Mowry went on, "somebody has to

be the victim. This time it's your turn. No reason why you

should have all the luck all the time, is there?"

Pigface took a step forward.

"Sit down!" ordered Mowry, in sharp tones.

The other stopped but did not sit. He stood firm upon the

carpet, his small, crafty eyes taking on a stubborn glint, his

complexion dark. He spoke in manner suggesting that at any

moment he might go bang.

"Put down that gun."

"Who? - me?" said Mowry.

"You don't know what you're doing," declared Pigface,

conditioned by a lifetime of creating fear. "Because you don't

know who I am. But when you do you'll wish."

"As happens, I do know who you are," Mowry chipped in.

"You're one of the Kaitempi's fat rats. A professional torturer,

a paid strangler, a conscienceless soko who maims and kills

for money and for the sadistic pleasure of it. Sit down when

I tell you."

Still Pigface refused to sit. On the contrary, he refuted the

popular belief that all bullies are cowards. Like many of his

ilk he had brute courage. His eyes flared with hate, he took

a heavy but swift step to one side while his hand dived into a

pocket.

But the eyes that so often had calmly watched the death-

throes of others had now betrayed him to his own end. The

step had hardly been taken, the hand only just reached the

pocket, when Mowry's gun went br-r-r-rup! , not loudly but

effectively. For five or six seconds Pigface stood wearing a

stupid expression, then he teetered, fell backward with a thud

that shook the room, rolled onto his side.

Gently opening the door a few inches, Mowry gazed into

the corridor, remained listening awhile. There came no rush of

feet toward the apartment, nobody raced away yelling for

help. If anyone had heard the muffled burst of shots they

must have attributed the noise to the flow of traffic far below.

Satisfied that the alarm had not been raised, he shut the

door, bent over the body, had a close look at it. Pigface was

as dead as he could be, the brief spray from the machine

pistol having put seven slugs through his obese frame.

It was a pity, in a way, because Mowry would much have

liked to have hammered, kicked or otherwise got out of him

the answers to some cogent questions. Whether he could have

gained his purpose in this respect was highly doubtful but it

would have been worth the trying. There were many things

he wanted to know about the Kaitempi, in particular the

identities of its current victims, their physical condition and

where they were hidden. No wasp could find supporters more

loyal and enthusiastic than genuine natives of the planet

rescued from the strangler's noose.

But one cannot thump information from a corpse. That was his

sole regret. In all other respects he had cause for gratification.

For one thing, factual evidence of the methods of the Kaitempi

was of such a revolting nature that to remove any one of

them from the scheme of things was to do a favour to

Sirians and Terrans alike. For another, such a daring, killing

was an ideal touch in present circumstances: it lent murderous

support to stickers and wall-scrawls.

It was a broad hint to the powers-that-be that somebody

was willing and able to do more than talk. The wasp had done

plenty of buzzing around. Now it had demonstrated its sting.

He searched the body and got what he had coveted from

the moment that Pigface had basked in adulation upon the

train. The ornate card set in thin plastic. It bore signs, seals

and signatures, certified that the bearer held the rank of major

in the Secret Police. Better still, it did not give the bearer's

name and personal description, contenting itself with using a

code-number in lieu. The Secret Police, it seemed, could be

warily secret even between themselves, a habit of which others

could take full advantage.

Mowry now returned attention to the filing cabinet. Most

of the stuff within it proved to be worthless, revealing nothing

not already known to Terran Intelligence. But there were

three files containing case-histories of persons who had also

been made to conform to the Kaitempi habit of hiding identities

under code-numbers. Evidently Pigface had abstracted

them from local headquarters and taken them home to study

at leisure.

He scanned these papers rapidly. It soon became clear that

the three unknowns had earned the enmity of the government

by nursing political ambitions. They were potential rivals of

those already in power. The case-histories said nothing to

indicate whether they were now living or dead. The implication

was that they were still alive, with their fate yet to be decided,

otherwise it seemed hardly likely that Pigface would waste

time on such documents. Anyway, the disappearance of these

vital papers would aggravate the powers-that-be and possibly

scare a few of them.

So he put the files in the case along with the rest of the

loot. After that he made a swift hunt around for anything

previously overlooked, searched spare suits in the bedroom,

discovered, nothing more worth taking. The last chore was to

remove from the apartment all clues capable of linking him

with the existing situation.

With the case in one hand and the gun in his pocket, he

paused in the doorway, looked back at the body.

"Live long!"

Pigface did not deign to reply. He reposed in siience, his

podgy right hand clasping a paper on which was inscribed:

Executed by Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Whoever found the body would be sure to pass that message

on. It would be equally certain to go from hand to hand, up

the ascending scale or rank, right to the top brackets. With

any luck at all it would give a few of them the galloping gripes.

Chapter IV

LUCK HELD. Mowry did not have to wait long for a train to

Pertane. He was more than glad of this because the bored

station police tended to become inquisitive about travellers

who sat around too long. True, if accosted he could show his

documents or, strictly as a last resort, arrogantly use the stolen

Kaitempi card to browbeat his way out of a possible trap: But

it was better and safer not to become an object of attention

in this place at this time.

The train came in and he managed to get aboard without

having been noticed by one of several restlessly roaming cops.

After a short time it pulled out again, rumbled into pitch

darkness. The lateness of the hour meant that passengers were few

and the coach he had chosen had plenty of vacant seats. It

was easy to select a place where he'd not be pestered by a

garrulous neighbour or studied for the fall length of the

journey by someone with sharp eyes and a long memory. He lolled

back, tired and heavy-eyed, and hoped to heaven that if there

should be another police check en route his papers, or the

Kaitempi card, or his gun would get him out of a jam.

One thing was certain: if Pigface's body were found within

the next three or four hours the resulting hullabaloo would

spread fast enough and far enough to ensure a thorough end-

to-end search of the train. The searchers would have no suspect's

description to go upon but they'd take a look into all

luggage and recognise stolen property when they found it.

Anyone of relatively low brain-power would have the sense

to grab the owner of said luggage and disregard all

protestations of innocence.

He dozed uneasily to the hypnotic thrum-tiddy-thrum of

the train. Every time a door slammed or a window rattled

he awoke, nerves stretched, body tense. A couple of times he

wondered whether a top priority radio-call was beating the

train to its destination.

`Halt and search all passengers and luggage on the 11.20

from Radine.`

There was no check on the way. The train slowed, clanked

through the points and switches of a large grid system, rolled

into Pertane. Its passengers dismounted, all of them sleepy

and a few looking half-dead as they straggled untidily toward

the exit. Mowry timed himself to be in the rear of the bunch,

lagging behind with half a dozen bandy-legged moochers. His

full attention was directed straight ahead, watching for

evidence of a grim-faced bunch waiting at the barrier.

If they were really there, in ambush for him, there'd be only

two courses open to him. He could drop the case and with it

the valuable loot, shoot first and fastest, make a bolt and hope

to get away in the ensuing confusion. As a tactic it would give

him the advantage of surprise. But failure meant immediate

death and even success might be dearly bought with a couple

of bullets in the body.

Alternatively he could try to bluff by marching straight up

to the biggest and ugliest of them, shoving the case into his

hands and saying with dopey eagerness, `Pardon, officer, but

one of those fellows who just went through dropped this in

front of me. I can't imagine why he abandoned his luggage.`

Then somewhere in the resulting chaos should occur the

chance for him to amble around a corner and run as if jet-

propelled.

He was sweaty with reaction when he found his fears were

not confirmed. It had been his first murder and it was a

murder because they would define it as such. So he'd been

paying for it in his own imagination, fancying himself hunted

before the hunt was up. Beyond the barrier lounged two

station police eyeing the emerging stream with total lack of

interest and yawning from time to time. He went past practically

under their noses and they could not have cared less about him.

But he wasn't yet out of the bag. Police on the station expected

to see people carrying luggage any time of day or night.

Cops in the city streets were different, being more inclined to

question the reason at such an indecent hour. They were nasty-

minded about burdened walkers in the night.

That problem could be solved by the easy expedient of

taking a taxi only to create another problem. Taxis have to

be driven. Drivers have mouths and memories. The most taciturn

of them could become positively gabby when questioned by the

Kaitempi.

"You take anyone off the 11.20 from Radine?"

"Yar. Young fellow with a case."

"Notice anything suspicious about him? He act tough or

behave warily, for instance?"

`Not that I noticed. Seemed all right to me. Wasn't a native

Jaimecan though. Spoke with a real Mashambi growl."

"Remember where you took him, hi?"

"Yar, I do. I can show you."

There was an escape from this predicament; he took it by

dumping the case in a rented locker on the station and walking

away free of the betraying burden. In theory the case should

be safe enough for one full Jaimecan day. In ominous fact

there was a slight chance of it being discovered and used as

bait.

On a world where nothing was sacrosanct from their prying

fingers the Kaitempi had master-keys to everything. They

weren't above opening and searching every bank of lockers

within a thousand miles of the scene of the crime if by any

quirk of thought they took it into their heads that to do so

would be a smart move. So when he returned in daytime to

collect the case he'd have to approach the lockers with

considerable caution, making sure that a watch was not being

kept upon them by a ring of hard characters.

Pacing rapidly home, he was within half a mile of his

destination when two cops stepped from a dark doorway the

other side of the street.

"Hey, you!"

Mowry stopped. They came across, stared at him in grim

silence. Then one made a gesture to indicate the high-shining

stars, the deserted street.

"Wandering around pretty late, aren't you?"

"Nothing wrong with that, is there?" he answered, making

his tone slightly apologetic.

"We are asking the questions," retorted the cop. "Where've

you been to this hour?"

"On a train."

"From where?"

"Khamasta."

"And where're you going now?"

"Home."

"You'd have made it quicker in a taxi, wouldn't you?"

"Sure would," Mowry agreed. "Unfortunately I happened to

be last out. Someone always has to be last out. By that time

every taxi had been grabbed."

"Well, it's a story."

At this point the other cop chipped in. He adopted

Technique Number Seven, namely, a narrowing of the eyes, an

out-thrusting of the jaw and a harshening of the voice. Once

in a while Number Seven would be rewarded with a guilty look

or at least a hopelessly exaggerated expression of innocence.

He was very good at it, having practised it assiduously

upon his wife and the bedroom mirror.

"You wouldn't perhaps have been nowhere near Khamasta,

hi? You wouldn't perhaps have been spending the night taking

a nice, easy stroll around Pertane and sort of absentmindedly

messing around with walls and windows, would you?"

"No, I wouldn't," said Mowry. "For the reason that nobody

would pay me a bad guilder for my trouble. Do I look crazy?"

"Not enough to be noticed," admitted the cop. "But somebody's

doing it, crazy or not."

"Well, I can't blame you fellows for wanting to nab him.

I don't like loonies myself. They give me the creeps." He made

an impatient gesture. "If you're going to search me how about

getting the job done? I've had a long day, I'm dog-tired and

I want to get home."

"I don't think we'll bother," said the cop. "You show us your

identity-card."

Mowry dug it out. The cop gave it no more than a perfunctory

glance while his companion ignored it altogether.

"All right, on your way. If you insist on walking the streets

at this hour you must expect to be stopped and questioned.

There's a war on, see?"

"Yes, officer;' said Mowry, meekly.

He pushed off at his best pace, thanking heaven he had

got rid of his luggage. If he'd been holding that case tbey'd

have regarded it, rightly enough, as probable evidence of evil-

doing. To prevent them from opening it and inspecting the

contents he'd have had to subdue them with the Kaitempi

card. He didn't want to make use of that tactic if he could

help it until sometime after Pigface's killing had been

discovered and the resulting uproar had died down. Say in at

least one month's time.

Reaching his apartment, he undressed but did not go immediately

to sleep. He lay in bed and examined the precious card again

and again. Now that he had more time to ponder its full

significance and obvious potentialities he found himself

torn two ways - should he keep it or not?

The socio-political system of the Sirian Empire being what

it was, a Kaitempi card was the prime scare-device on any

Sirian-held planet. The mere sight of this dreaded totem was

enough to make ninety-nine percent of civilians get down on

their knees and salaam, their faces in the dust. That fact made

a Kaitempi card of tremendous value to any wasp. Yet Terra

had not provided him with such a weapon. He'd had to grab

it for himself. The obvious conclusion was that Terran

Intelligence lacked an original copy.

Out there amid the mist of stars, on the green-blue world

called Earth, they could duplicate anything save a living.

entity - and could produce a very close imitation even of that.

Maybe they needed this card. Given the chance, maybe they'd

arm every wasp in existence with a mock-majorship in the

Kaitempi and by the same token give life to some otherwise

doomed to death.

For himself, to surrender the card to Terran authority would

be like voluntarily sacrificing his queen while playing a hard-

fought and bitter game of chess. All the same, before going

to sleep he reached his conclusion: on his first return to the

cave he would beam a detailed report of what had happened,

the prize he had won and what it was worth. Terra could then

decide whether or not to deprive him of it in the interest of

the greater number.

The wasp buzzed alone, unaided, but was loyal to the swarm.

At noon he made cautious return to the station, hung

around for twenty minutes as if waiting to meet an incoming

traveller. He kept sharp, careful watch in all directions while

appearing bored and interested in nothing save occasional

streams of arrivals. Some fifty or sixty other people were

idling about in unconscious imitation of himself, among them

he could detect nobody maintaining a sly eye upon the lockers.

There were about a dozen who looked overmuscled and wore

the deadpan hardness of officials but these were solely

interested in people coming through the barriers.

Finally he took the chance, ambled casually up to his locker,

stuck his key in its door while wishing to God that he had

a third eye located in the back of his neck. Opening the door

he took out the case and had a bad moment as he stood with

the damning evidence in his hand. If ever it was going to

occur, now was the time for a shout of triumph, a sudden grip

on his shoulder, a bunch of callous faces all around.

Still nothing happened. He strolled away looking blandly

innocent but deep inside as leery as a fox who hears the dim,

distant baying of the hounds. Outside the station he jumped

a crosstown bus, maintained a wary watch for followers.

Chances were very high that nobody had noticed him, nobody

was interested in him, because in Radine the Kaitempi

were still running around in circles without the vaguest notion

of where to probe first. But he could not take that for granted

nor dare he underestimate their craftiness. There was one

chance in a thousand that by some item he'd overlooked or

hadn't thought of he'd given them a lead straight to the lockers

and that they had decided not to nab him on the spot, hoping

that if left to run loose he'd take them to the rest of the

presumed mob.

So during the ride he peered repeatedly backward, observed

passengers getting on and off, tried to see if he could spot a

loaded dynocar tagging along somewhere behind. He changed

buses five times, lugged the case along two squalid alleys,

walked into the fronts and out the backs of three department

stores.

Satisfied at last that there was no surreptitious pursuit he

made for his apartment, kicked the case under the bed, let go

a deep sigh. They'd warned him that this kind of life would

prove a continual strain on the nerves. It sure was!

Going out again, he bought a box of envelopes and a cheap

typewriter. Then using the Kaitempi paper he spent the rest

of the day and part of the next one typing with forceful

brevity. He didn't have to bother about leaving his prints all

over this correspondence; Terran fingerprint treatment had

turned his impressions into vague, unclassifiable blotches.

When he had finished that task he devoted the following

day to patient research in the city library. He made copious

notes, went home, addressed a stack of envelopes, stamped

the lot.

In the early evening he mailed more than two hundred

letters to newspaper editors, radio announcers, military

leaders, senior civil servants, police chiefs, prominent

politicians and key-members of the government. Defiantly

positioned under the Kaitempi heading and supported by the

embossed seal of its winged sword, the message was short

but said plenty.

Sallana is the first.

There are plenty more to come.

The list is long.

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

That done, he burned the envelope-box and dropped the

typewriter in the river where it ran deep. If he had occasion

to write any more letters he'd buy another one and afterward

get rid of it the same way. He could well afford to buy and

scrap a hundred typewriters if he thought it necessary. The

more the merrier. If the Kaitempi analysed the type on

threatening correspondence and found a number of untraceable

machines being used, they'd get the idea that a gigantic

organisation was at work. Furthermore, every purchase helped

inflate the Jaimecan economy with worthless paper.

His next step was to visit a drive-yourself agency and rent

a dynocar for a week, using the name of Shir Agavan and the

address of the hotel where first he'd holed-up. By its means

he got rid of five hundred stickers distributed over six small

towns and thirty villages. The job was a lot riskier than it

had been in Radine or Pertane.

The villages were by far the worst to handle, the smaller

in size the more troublesome they proved. In a city of a quarter

million to two million population a stranger is an insignificant

nonentity; in a dump of less than one thousand inhabitants he

is noticed, remarked upon, his every move watched.

On many occasions a bunch of yokels gave him the chance

to slap up a sticker by switching attention from him to his

car. Twice somebody took down the car's number just for

the ducks of it. It was a good thing he'd given a blind-alley

lead when hiring it because police inquiries about the

widespread rash of subversive stickers would almost certainly

make them relate the phenomenon to the laconic, fast-moving

stranger driving dyno XC 17978.

He had been on Jaimec exactly four weeks when he disposed of

the last of the stickers from his bag and thus reached

the end of phase one. It was at this point he began to feel

despondent.

In the papers and over the air officialdom still maintained

complete silence about traitorous activities. Not a word had

been said about the slaughter of Pigface Sallana. All the

outward evidence suggested that the government remained

bliss-fully unaware of waspish buzzings and was totally

uncon-cerned about the existence of an imaginery Dirac Angestun

Gesept.

Thus deprived of visible reactions Mowry had no way of

telling what results he had achieved, if any. In retrospect this

paper-war looked pretty futile in spite of all Wolf's glib talk

about pinning down an army with little more than gestures.

He, Mowry, had been lashing out in the dark and the other'

fellow wasn't even bothering to hit back.

That made it difficult to maintain enthusiasm at the first

feverish pitch. Just one public squeal of pain from the

opposition or a howl of fury or a tirade of threats would have

given him a big boost by showing him that at last he had landed

a real wallop on something solid. But they wouldn't give him

the petty satisfaction of hearing them breathing hard.

He was paying the psychological penalty of working alone.

There was no companion-in-arms with whom to share

stimulating speculations about the enemy's hidden countermoves.

Nobody to encourage or from whom to receive encouragement.

Nobody sharing the conspiracy and the danger and - as is

usual among two or more - the laughs. In his waspish

role he was thrown wholly upon his own moral resources

which needed feeding with factual evidence that so far had

not been forthcoming.

Swiftly he built up a blue spell so dismal and depressing

that for two days he hung around the apartment and did

nothing but mope. On the third day pessimism evaporated

and was replaced with a growing sense of alarm. He did not

ignore the new feeling. At training college they'd warned him

times without number always to heed it.

"The fact that one is hunted in deadly earnest can cause an

abnormal sharpening of the mental perceptions almost to the

point of developing a sixth sense. That's what makes hardened

criminals difficult to catch. They get hunches and play them.

Many a badly wanted crook has moved out one jump ahead

of the police with such timeliness that they've suspected a

tip-off. All that had really happened was that the fellow

suddenly got the jitters and took off good and fast. For the sake

of your skin you do the same. If ever you feel they're getting

close don't hang around and try check on it - just beat it

someplace else !"

Yes, that's what they'd said to him. He remembered now

that he had wondered whether this ability to smell danger

might be quasi-telepathic. The police rarely pulled a raid

without a stakeout or some sort of preliminary observation.

A hound hanging around a hole, sharp-eyed, sharp-toothed

and unable to avoid thinking of what he was doing, might

give the one in hiding his mental scent that would register not

in clear thought-forms but rather as the inward shrilling of an

alarm-bell.

On the strength of that he grabbed his bags and bolted out

the back way. Nobody was loafing around at that moment,

nobody saw him go, nobody tracked him as he went.

Four beefy characters stationed themselves within watching

and shooting distance of the back a little before midnight. Two

carloads of similar specimens drew up at the front, bashed

open the door, charged upstairs. They were there three hours

and half-killed the landlord before they became convinced

of his ignorance.

Mowry knew nothihg of this. It was the much-needed boost

he was lucky to miss.

His new sanctuary a mile and a half distant was one long,

narrow room at top of a dilapidated building in Pertane's

toughest quarter, a district where slatterns kept house by

kicking the dirt around until it got lost. Here he'd not been asked

for any name or identity-card, it being one of the more delightful

customs of the country to mind one's own goddam business. All

that proved necessary was to exhibit a fifty guilder note.

The money had been snatched, a cheap and well-worn

key given in exchange.

Promptly he made the key useless by buying a cruciform

multiward lock and fitting it to the door. He also fixed a

couple of recessed bolts to the window despite that it was

forty feet above ground and well-nigh unreachable. Finally

he built a small hidden trap in the roof, this being his intended

escape route if ever the stairs became solidly blocked with

enemy carcases.

For the time being, he reckoned, he stood chiefly in danger

of the locality's small-time thieves - the big ones wouldn't

bother to cut their way into one room in a slum. The locks

and bolts should be plenty good enough to keep out the pikers.

He trusted his unsavoury neighbours as much as they trusted

their own mothers which was as far as said mothers could

be thrown with one hand against a strong wind.

Again he had to spend some time cleaning the joint and

making it fit for Terran habitation. If ever he was caught by

the Kaitempi he'd roll in the deep, stinking filth of a death-

cell, naked, manacled and half-starved until they led him to

tbe strangling-post. Dirt would then have to be endured

because there'd be no choice about it. But so long as he

remained free he insisted on his right to be fastidious. By

the time he'd finished his housework the room was brighter and

sweeter than ever it had been since the builders moved out

and the proletariat moved in.

By now he'd recovered from both his depression and his

sense of impending disaster. In better spirits he went outdoors,

walked along the road until he reached a vacant lot littered

with junk. When nobody was looking he dropped Pigface's

gun on the lot at a point near the sidewalk where it could

easily be seen.

Ambling onward with hands in pockets, his gait a bow-

legged slouch, he reached a doorway, lounged in it and

assumed the look of bored cunning of one who sows not

neither doth he reap. This was the fashionable expression in

that area. Mostly his gaze was aimed across the street but all

the time he was keeping surreptitious watch upon the gun

lying seventy yards away.

What followed proved yet again that not one person in ten

uses his eyes. Within short time thirty people had passed close

by the gun without seeing it. Six of these walked within a

few inches of it, one actually stepped over it.

Finally someone spotted it. He was a shrivel-chested, spindly-

legged youth with splotches of darker purple on his face.

Halting by the gun, he stared at it, bent over for a closer look

but did not touch it. Then he glanced hurriedly and, failed

to see the watching Mowry who had retreated farther into the

doorway. Again he bent toward the gun, put out a hand as if

to grab it. At the last moment he changed his mind, hastened

away. He crossed right in front of Mowry, his face wearing wearing

a mixture of frustrated cupidity and fear.

"Wanted it but too. scared to take it," Mowry decided.

Twenty more pedestrians passed. Of these, two noticed the

gun and pretended they'd not seen it. Neither came back to

claim it when nobody was near. Probably they viewed the

weapon as dangerous evidence that someone had seen fit to

dump - and they weren't going to be chumps enough to be

caught with it. The one who eventually confiscated it was an

artist in his own right.

This character, a heavily built individual with hanging jowls

and a rolling gait, went by the gun and noted its existence

without batting an eyelid or changing pace. Continuing onward,

he stopped at the next corner fifty yards away, looked

around with the air of a stranger uncertain of his whereabouts,

dug a notebook from his pocket and put on a great play of

consulting it. All the time his sharp little eyes were darting

this way and that but failed to find the watcher in the doorway.

After a while he retraced his steps, crossed the vacant lot,

dropped the notebook on top of the gun, scooped up both in

one swift snatch and ambled casually onward. The way the

book remained prominently in his hand while the gun

disappeared was a wonder to behold.

Letting the, fellow get a good lead, Mowry emerged from

the doorway and followed. He hoped the other had only a

short way to go. This, obviously, was a smart customer likely

to notice and throw off a shadower if chased too long. He

didn't want to lose him after the trouble he'd taken to find

a willing gun-grabber.

Floppy Jowls continued along the road, turned right into

a narrower and dirtier street, headed over a crossroad, turned

left. At no time did he behave suspiciously, take evasive tactics

or show any awareness of being followed.

Near the end of the street he entered a cheap restaurant

with dusty windows and a cracked, unreadable sign above it

door. A few moments later Mowry mooched past, gave the

place a swift once-over. It had an ominous look about it, a

typical rat-hole where underworld characters took refuge from

the sunshine while they waited for the night. But. nothing

ventured, nothing gained. Boldly he shoved open the door and

walked in.

The place stank of unwashed bodies, stale food and drippings

of zith. Behind the bar a sallow-faced attendant eyed

him with the hostile expression reserved for any and every

unfamiliar face. A dozen customers sat in the half-light by

the stained and paintless wall and glowered at him on general

principles. They looked a choice bunch of apaches.

Mowry leaned on the bar and spoke to Sallow Face, making

his tones sound tough. "I'll have a mug of coffee."

"Coffee?" The other jumped as if rammed with a needle.

"Blood of Jaime, that's a Spakum drink."

"Yar," said Mowry. "I want to spit it all over the floor."

He let go a harsh, grating laugh. "Wake up and give me a

zith ."

The attendant scowled, snatched a none too clean glassite

mug from a shelf, pumped it full of low-grade zith and slid

it across. "Six-tenths."

Paying him, Mowry took the drink across to a small table

in the darkest corner, a dozen pairs of eyes following his every

move. He sat down, looked idly around and ignored the grim

silence. His manner was that of one thoroughly at home when

slumming. His questing gaze found Floppy Jowls just as that

worthy left his seat, came across mug in hand and joined him

at the table.

The latter's move in apparently welcoming the newcomer

caused a sudden relaxation in the place. Tension disappeared,

toughies lost interest in Mowry, the bar attendant lounged

back, general conversation was resumed. That showed Floppy

Jowls was sufficiently well-known among the hard-faced

clientele for them to take on trust anyone known to him.

Meanwhile, he had squatted face to face with Mowry and

introduced himself with, "My name is Arhava, Butin Arhava."

He paused, waiting for a response that did not come; then

went on, "You're a stranger. From Diracta. Specifically from

Masham. I can tell by your accent."

"Clever of you," Mowry encouraged.

"One has to be clever to get by. The stupid don't. They choke

in a rope." He took a swig of zith. "You wouldn't walk into

this place unless you were a genuine stranger - or one of the

Kaitempi."

"No?"

"No, I don't think so. And the Kaitempi wouldn't dare send

just one man in here. They'd send six. Maybe more. The

Kaitempi would expect trouble aplenty in the Cafe Susun."

"That," said Mowry, "suits me very well."

"It suits me even better." Butin Arhava showed the snout

of Pigface's gun pver the edge of the table. It was pointed

straight at the other's middle. "I do not like being followed.

If this gun went off nobody in here would give a damn. You

wouldn't worry either, not for long. So you'd better talk. Why

have you been following me, hi?"

"You knew I was behind you all the time?"

"I did. What's the big idea?"

"You'll hardly believe it when I tell you." Leaning across the

table, Mowry grinned straight into his scowling face. "I want

to give you a thousand guilders."

"That's nice," said Arhava, unimpressed. "That's very nice."

His eyes narrowed. "And you're all set to reach into your

pocket and give it me, hi?"

Mowry nodded, still grinning. "Yes - unless you're so lily-

livered that you prefer to reach into it yourself."

"You won't bait me that way," retorted Arhava. "I've got

control of the situation and I'm keeping it, see? Now get busy

dipping - but if what comes out of that pocket is a gun it's

you and not me who'll be at the wrong end of the bang. Go

ahead and dip. I'm watching."

With the weapon steadily aimed at him over the table's rim,

Mowry felt in his right-hand pocket, drew out a neat wad of

twenty-guilder notes, poked them across. "There you are.

They're all yours."

For a moment Arhava gaped with complete incredulity,

then he made a swift pass and the notes vanished. The gun

also disappeared. He lay back in his seat and studied Mowry

with a mixture of bafflement and suspicion. "Now show

the string."

"No string," Mowry assured. "Just a gift from an admirer."

"Meaning who?"

"Me."

"But you don't know me from the Statue of Jaime."

"I hope to," said Mowry. "I hope to know you well enough

to convince you of something mightily important"

"And what is that?"

"There's lots more money where that came from."

"Is that so?" Arhava gave a knowing smirk. "Well, where

did it come from?"

"I just told you - an admirer."

"Don't give me that.

"All right. The conversation is over. It's been nice knowing

you. Now get back to your own seat"

"Don't be silly." Licking his lips, Arhava glanced cautiously

around the room, reduced his voice almost to a whisper. "How

much?"

"Twenty thousand guilders."

The other fanned his hands as if beating off an annoying

fly. "Sh-h-h! Don't say it so loud!" Another leery look around

the room. "Did you actually say twenty thousand?"

"Yar."

Arhava took a deep breath. "Who d'you want killed?"

"One - for a start."

"Are you serious?"

"I've just given you a thousand guilders and that's not funny.

Besides, you can put the matter to the test. Cut a throat and

collect it's as easy as that."

"Just for a start, you said?"

"I did. By that is meant that if I like your work I'll offer

further employment. I've got a list of names and will pay

twenty thousand per body." Watching him for effect, Mowry

put a note of warning into his voice. "The Kaitempi will

reward you with ten thousand for delivering me into their

hands. That's money for the taking and with no risk attached.

But to get it you'll have to sacrifice all chance at a far bigger

sum, maybe a million or more." He paused, finished with

pointed sarcasm, "One does not flood one's own goldmine,

does one?"

"Nar, not unless one is cracked." Arhava became slightly

unnerved as his thoughts milled around. "And what makes

you think I'm a professional killer?"

"I don't think anything of the sort. But I know you're a

shady character, probably with a police record, otherwise you

wouldn't have swiped that gun and neither would you dive

into a crummy joint like this. That means you're just the type

who'll do some dirty work for me or, alternatively, can

intro-duce me to someone who is willing to do it. Personally, I

don't care a hoot who performs the task, you or your Uncle

Smatsy. I reek of money. You love the scent of it. If you want

to go on, sniffing it you've got to do something about it."

Arhava nodded slowly, stuck a hand in his pocket and

fondled the thousand guilders. There was a queer fire in his

eyes. "I don't do that kind of work, it's not quite in my line.

And it needs more than one, but -"

"But what?"

"Not saying. I've got to have time to think this over. I want

to discuss it with a couple of friends."

Mowry stood up. `I'll give you four days to find them and

chew the fat. By then you'd better have made up your mind

one way or the other. I'll be here again in four days time at

this hour." Then he gave the other a light but imperative shove

in the shoulder. "I don't like being followed either. Lay off if

you want to grow old and get rich."

With that; he departed: Arhava remained obediently seated

and gazed dreamily at the door. After a time he called for,

another zith. His voice was strangely hoarse.

The barman dumped the drink at his elbow, said with no

great interest, "Friend of yours, Butin?"

"Yar Datham Hain."

Datham Hain being the Sirian version of Santa Claus.

Chapter V

IN THE EARLY morning Mowry went to another and different

agency, rented a dynocar under the name of Morfid Payth

with an address in Radine. He couldn't risk using the same

agency twice in succession; it was highly likely that already

the police had visited the first one and asked pointed

questions. There they'd recognise him as the subject of official

investigation, detain him on some pretext while they used the

telephone.

He drove out the town carefully, with circumspection, not

wanting to draw the attention of any patrol-cars lurking

around. Eventually he reached the tree with the abnormal

branch formation and the mock-tombstone beneath it. For a

few minutes he stopped nearby pretending to tinker with the

dynamo until the road became completely clear of traffic in

both directions. Then swiftly he drove the car over the grass

verge and in between the trees for as far as he could get it.

After that he went back on foot and satisfied himself that

it could not be seen from the road. With his feet he scuffed

the grass and thus concealed the tyre-tracks entering the

forest. That done, he headed for the distant cave, moving as

fast as he could make it.

He got there in the late afternoon. When still deep among

the trees and eight hundred yards from his destination the

ornamental ring on the middle finger of his left hand started

tingling. The sensation grew progressively stronger as he

neared. This caused him to make a straight and confident

approach with no preliminary skirmishing around. The ring

would not have tingled if Container-22 had ceased to radiate

and that would happen only on the breaking of its beam by

the invasion of the cave by something man-sized.

Yes, if accidentally or otherwise the enemy had found the

hidden dump and made a trap of it, the quarry would have

faded away with a half-mile running start. And they'd have

been left to sit on their butts and wait for him who never

arrives.

Also in the cave was something more spectacular than an

invisible warning system. Probably the discoverers' curiosity

would have got the better of them and they'd start prying open

the stacked duralumin cylinders including Container-30. When

they interfered with that one the resulting bang would be

heard and felt in faraway Pertane.

Once in the cave he opened Container-2, got busy while

daylight lasted and treated himself to a real Earth-meal

concocted of real Earth-food. He was far from being a guzzle-

guts but shared with exiles a delight in the flavours of home.

A small can of pineapple seemed like a taste of heaven, he

lingered over every drop of juice and made it last twenty

minutes. The feed gave quite a lift to his morale, made the

growing forces out there among the stars seem not so far

away.

Upon the fall of darkness he rolled Container-5 out the

cave's mouth, upended it on the tiny beach. It was now a tall

silver-gray cylinder pointed at the stars. From its side he

unclipped a small handle, stuck it into a hole in the slight

blister near the base, wound vigorously. Something inside began

to murmur a smooth and steady zuum-zuum.

He now took the top cap off the cylinder, having to stand

on tiptoe to get at it. Then he sat on a nearby rock and waited.

After the cylinder had warmed up it emitted a sharp click and

the zuum-zuum struck a deeper note. He knew that it was

now shouting into space, using soundless words far stronger

and more penetrating than those of any spoken language.

Whirrup-dzzt-pam! Whirrup-dzzt-pam!

"Jaimec calling! Jaimec calling!"

Now he could do nothing more save bide his time in

patience. The call was not being directed straight to Terra

which was much too far away to permit a conversation with

brief time-lags. It was being squirted at a spatial listening-post

and field headquarters near enough to be on or perhaps actually

within the rim of the Sirian Empire. He did not know its

precise location and, as Wolf had remarked, what he didn't

know he couldn't tell.

A prompt response was unlikely. Out there in the dark

they'd be listening for a hundred calls on a hundred

frequencies and be held on some of them while messages

passed to and fro. He'd have to wait his turn.

Nearly three hours crawled by while the cylinder stood on

the pebble beach and gave forth its scarcely hearable zuum-

zuum . Then suddenly a tiny red eye glowed bright and winked

steadily near its top.

Again he strained on tiptoe, cursing his shortness, felt into

the cylinder's open top and took out what looked exactly like

an ordinary telephone. Holding it to his ear, he said into the

mouthpiece, "JM on Jaimec."

It was a few minutes before the response came back in the

shape of a voice that sounded as though speaking through a

load of gravel. But it was a Terran voice speaking the

wel-come-sounding Terran language. It said, "Ready to tape your

report. Fire away."

Mowry tried to sit down while he talked but found the connecting

cord too short. So he had to stand. In this position

he recited as fast as he could. The Tale of a Wasp by Samuel

Sucker, he thought wryly. He gave it in full detail and again

had to wait quite a while for the come-back.

Then the voice rasped, “Good! You're doing fine!”

"Am I? Can't see any signs of it so far. I've been plastering

paper all over the planet and nothing is happening."

"Plenty is happening," contradicted the Voice. It came

through with a rhythmic variation in amplitude as it fooled

Sirian detection devices by switching five times per second

through a chain of differently positioned transmitters. "You

just can't see the full picture from where you're standing."

"How about giving me a glimpse?"

"The pot is coming slowly but surely to the boil. Their fleets

are being widely dispersed, there are vast troop movements

from their overcrowded home-system to the outer planets of

their empire. They're gradually being chivvied into a fix. They

can't hold what they've got without spreading all over it. The

wider they spread the thinner they get. The thinner they get

the easier it is to bite lumps out of them. Hold it a bit while

I check your planet" He went off, came back after a time.

"Yes, position there is that they daren't take any strength away

from Jaimec no matter how greatly needed elsewhere. In fact

they may yet have to add to it at the expense of Diracta.

You're the cause of that."

"Sweet of you to say so," said Mowry. A thought struck him

and he said eagerly, "Hey, who gave you that information?"

"Monitoring and Decoding Service. They dig a lot out of

enemy broadcasts."

"Oh." He felt disappointed, having hoped for news of a

Terran Intelligence agent somewhere on Jaimec. But of course

even if there was one they wouldn't tell him. They'd lie about

it. They'd give him no information that Kaitempi persuasion

might force out of him. "How about this Kaitempi card and

embossing machine? Do I leave them here to be collected or

do I keep them for myself?"

"Stand by and I'll find out." The voice went away for more

than an hour, returned with, "Sorry about the delay. Distance

takes time in any terms. You can keep that stuff and use it

as you think best. T.I. got a card recently. An agent bought

one for them."

"Bought one?" He waggled his eyebrows in surprise.

"Yes - with his life. What did yours cost?"

"Major Sallana's life, as I told you."

!Tsk-tsk! Those cards come mighty dear." There was a

pause, then, "Closing down. Best of luck!"

"Thanks!"

With some reluctance Mowry replaced the receiver, switched

off the zuum-zuum, capped the cylinder and rolled it back

into the cave. He'd have liked to listen until dawn to anything

that maintained the invisible tie between him and that faraway

lifeform. `Best of luck!' the voice had said, not knowing

how much more it meant than the alien, `Live long!'

From yet another container he took several packets and

small parcels, distributed them about his person, put others

into a canvas shoulder-bag of the kind favoured by the Sirian

peasantry. Impatience prevented him from waiting for the

full light of day. Being now more familiar with the forest lie

felt sure he could fumble his way through it even in the dark.

The going would be tougher, the journey would take longer,

but he could not resist the urge to get back to the car as soon

as possible.

Before leaving his last act was to press the hidden button

on Container-22 which had ceased to radiate the moment he'd

entered the cave and remained dead ever since. After a one-

minute delay it would again set up the invisible barrier that

could not be passed without betrayal.

He got out the cave fast, the parcels heavy around him,

and had made thirty yards into the trees when his finger-ring

started its tingling. Slowly he moved on, feeling his way from

time to time. The tingling gradually weakened with distance,

faded out after eight hundred yards.

From then on he consulted his luminous compass at least

a hundred times. It led him back to the road at a point half

a mile from the car, a pardonable margin of error in a twenty-

mile journey two-thirds of which had been covered in darkness.

At two hours after dawn he arrived with tired eyes and

aching feet, clambered thankfully into the car, edged it unseen

from the forest and purred along the highroad to the dump

called home.

The day of the appointment kicked off with a highly significant

start. Over the radio and video, through the public-

address system and in all the newspapers the government came

out with the same announcement. Mowry heard the miserably

muffled bellowings of a loudspeaker two streets away, the

shrill cries of newsvendors. He bought a paper, read it over

his breakfast.

`Under the War Emergency Powers Act, by order of the

Jaimec Ministry of Defence: AII organisations, societies,

parties and other corporate bodies will be registered at the

Central Bureau of Records, Pertane, not later than the twentieth

of this month. Secretaries will state in full the objects

and purposes of their respective organisations, societies;

parties or other corporate bodies, give the address of habitual

meeting places and provide a complete list of members.'

`Under the War Emergency Powers Act, by order of the

Jaimec Ministry of Defence: After the twentieth of this month,

any organisation, society, party or other corporate body will

be deemed an illegal movement if not registered in accordance

with the above order. Membership of an illegal movement or

the giving of aid and comfort to uny member of an illegal

movement will constitute a treacherous offence punishable by

death.'

So at last they'd made a countermove. Dirac Angestun Gesept

must kneel at the confessional or at the strangling-post.

By a simple, easy legislative trick they'd got D.A.G. where

they wanted it, coming and going. It was a kill-or-cure tactic

full of psychological menace and well calculated to scare all

the weaklings right out of D.A.G.'s ranks.

Weaklings are blabs.

They talk. They betray their fellows, one by one, right

through the chain of command to the top. They represent the

rot that spreads through a system and brings it to total

collapse. In theory, anyway.

Mowry read it again, grinning to himself and enjoying every

word. The government was going to have a tough time enticing

informers from the D.A.G. Fat lot of talking can be

done by a membership completely unaware of its status. There

are no traitors in a phantom army.

For instance, Butin Arhava was a fully paid up member in

good standing - and didn't know it. Nobody had bothered to

tell him. The Kaitempi could trap him and draw out his

bowels very, very slowly without gaining one worthwhile word

about the Sirian Freedom Party.

Around mid-day Mowry looked in at the Central Bureau

of Records. Sure enough a queue stretched from the door to

the counter where a couple of disdainful officials were dishing

out forms. The line slowly edged forward, composed of

secretaries or other officers of trade guilds; zith-drinking

societies, video fan clubs and every other conceivable kind of

organisation. The skinny oldster moping in the rear was Area

Supervisor of the Pan-Sirian Association of Lizard Watchers. The

podgy specimen one step ahead of him represented the Pertane

Model Rocket Builders Club. There wasn't one in the entire

stting who looked capable of spitting in a Spakum eye much

less overthrowing his own government.

Joining the queue, Mowry said conversationally to Skinny,

"Nuisance this, isn't it?"

"Yar. Only the Statue of Jaime knows why it is considered

necessary."

"Maybe they're trying to round up people with special

talents," Mowry offered. "Radio experts, photographers and

fo& like those. They can use all sorts of technicians in

wartime."

"They could have said so in plain words," opined Skinny

impatiently. "They could have published list of them and

ordered them to report in."

"Yar, that's right."

"My group watches lizards. Of what special use is a lizard-

watcher, hi?

"I can't imagine. Why watch lizards, anyway?"

"Have you ever watched them?"

"No," admitted Mowry, without shame.

"Then you don't know the fascination of it."

Podgy turned round and said with a superior air, "My group

builds model rockets."

"Kid stuff," defined Skinny.

"That's what you think. I'll have you know every member

is a potential rocket-engineer and in time of war a rocket-

engineer is a valuable -"

"Move up," said Skinny, nudging him. They shuffled forward,

stopped. Skinny said to Mowry, "What's your crowd do?"

"We etch glass."

"Well, that's a high form of art. I have seen some very

attractive examples of it myself. They were luxury articles

though. A bit beyond the common purse." He let go a loud

sniff. "What good are glass-etchers for winning battles?"

"You guess," Mowry invited.

"Now take rockets," put in Podgy. "The rocket is essential

to space-war and -"

"Move up," ordered Skinny again.

They reached the stack of forms, were each given one off

the top. The group dispersed, going their various ways while

a long line of later comers edged toward the counter. Mowry

went to the main post office, sat at a vacant table, filled up

the form carefully and neatly. He got some satisfaction out

of doing it with a government pen and government ink.

Title of organisation : Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Purpose of organisation : Destruction of present government

and termination of war against Terra .

Customary meeting place : Wherever Kaitempi can't find us

Names and addresses of elected officers : You'll find out

when it's too late.

Attach hereto complete list of members : Nar.

Signature : Jaime Shallapurta.

That last touch would get someone hopping mad. It was

calculated insult to the much revered Statue of Jaime.

loosely translated it meant James Stoneybottom.

He bought an envelope, was about to mail it back to the

bureau when it occurred to him to hot it up still more.

Forthwith he took the form to his room, shoved it into the

embossing machine and impressed it with the Kaitempi cartouche.

Then he posted it.

This performance pleased him immensely. A month ago it

would have been too childish to bother with and the recipients

would have dismissed it as the work of someone feeble-

minded. But today the circumstances were vastly different.

The powers-that-be had revealed themselves as annoyed if

not frightened. They were in poor mood to relish a raspberry.

With moderate luck the sardonic registration-form would

boost their anger and that would be all to the good because a

mind filled with fury cannot think in cool, logical manner.

When one is fighting a paper-war one uses paper-war tactics

that in the long run can be just as lethal as high explosive.

And the tactics are not limited in scope by use of one material.

The said material is very variable in form. Paper can convey

a private warning, a public threat, secret temptation, open

defiance; wall-bills, window-stickers, leaflets dropped by the

thousands from the roof-tops, cards left on seats or slipped

into pockets and purses...money.

Yes, money.

With paper money he could buy a lot of the deeds needed

to back up the words. With paper money he could persuade

the Sirian foe to kick himself good and hard in the pants and

thereby save the Terrans a tedious chore.

At the proper hour he set out for the Cafe Susun.

Not having yet received the D.A.G.'s thumb-on-nose registration

the Jaimecan authorities were still able to think in a

calculating and menacing way. Their countermoves had not

been confined to that morning's new law. They had taken

matters further by concocting a dangerous technique, namely,

that of the snap-search.

It almost caught Mowry at the first grab. He did not

congratulate. himself on his escape, realising that to avoid one

trap might be merely to fall into another. The risk was great,

the trick being of such a type that none could tell when or

where the next blow would fall.

He was heading for his rendezvous when suddenly a line

of uniformed police extended itself across the street. A second

line simultaneously did likewise four hundred yards farther

on. From the dumbfounded mob trapped between the lines

appeared a number of plainclothes members of the Kaitempi.

These at once commenced a swift and expert search of everyone

thus halted in the street. Meanwhile both lines of police

kept their full attention inward, watching to see that nobody

ducked into a doorway and bolted through a house to escape

the mass-frisk.

Thanking his lucky stars that he was outside the trap and

being ignored, Mowry faded into the background as

inconspicuously as possible and beat it home fast. In his

room he burned all documents relating to Shir Agavan, crumbled

the ashes into fine dust. That identity was now dead for ever

and ever, amen. It would never be used again.

From one of his packages he took a new set of papers

swearing before all and sundry that he was Krag Wulkin,

special-correspondent of a leading news agency, with a home

address on Diracta. In some ways it was a better camoufiage

than the former one. It lent added plausibility to his

Mashambi accent. Moreover a complete check on it would

involve wasting a month referring back to the Sirian home

planet.

Thus armed he started out again. Though better fitted to

face awkward questions the risk of being asked them had been

greatly boosted by this latest technique and he took to the

streets with the queezy feeling that somehow or other the hunt

at last had picked up the scent.

There was no way of telling exactly what the snap-searchers

were seeking. Maybe they were trying to catch people carrying

subversive propaganda on their persons. Or perhaps they were

looking for treacherous sokos with D.A.G. membership cards.

Or could be they were haphazardly groping around for a

dynocar renter named Shir Agavan. Whatever their reasons,

the tactic proved that someone among Jaimec's big shots had

become aggravated.

Luckily no more traps opened in his path before he reached

the Cafe Susun. He went in, found Arhava and two others

seated at the far table where they were half-concealed in dim

light and could keep watch on the door.

"You're late," greeted Arhava. "We thought you weren't

coming."

"I got delayed by a police raid on the street. The cops looked

surly. You fellows just robbed a bank or something?"

"No, we haven't" Arhava made a casual gesture toward his

companions. "Meet Gurd and Skriva."

Mowry acknowledged them with a curt nod, looked them

over. They were much alike, obviously brothers. Flat-faced,

hard-eyed with pinned-back ears that came up to sharp points.

Each looked capable of selling the other into slavery provided

there was no comeback with a knife.

"We haven't heard your name," said Gurd, speaking between

long, narrow teeth.

"You aren't going to, either," responded Mowry.

Gurd bristled. "Why not?"

"Because you don't really care what my name is," Mowry

told him. "If the thing atop your neck has a steady tick it's a

matter of total indifference to you who gives you a load of

guilders."

"Yar, that's right," chipped in Skriva, his eyes glittering.

"Money is money regardless of who hands it over. Shut up, Gurd."

"I only wanted to know." mumbled Gurd, subdued.

Arhava took over with the mouth-watering eagerness of one

on the make. "I've given these boys your proposition. They're

interested." He turned to them. "Aren't you?"

"Yar," said Skriva. He concentrated attention upon Mowry.

"You want someone in his box. That right?"

"I want someone stone cold and I don't give a hoot whether

or not he is boxed."

"We can tend to that." He fixed his toughest expression

which told all and sundry that he'd kilt him a b'ar when he

wuz only three. Then he said, "For fifty thousand."

Emitting a deep sigh, Mowry stood up, ambled toward the

door. "Live long!"

"Come back!" Skriva shot to his feet, waved urgently.

Arhava had the appalled look of someone suddenly cut out

of a rich uncle's will. Gurd sucked his teeth with visible

agitation.

Pausing at the door, Mowry held it open. "You stupes ready

to talk sense?"

"Sure," pleaded Skriva. "I was only joking. Come back and

sit down."

"Bring us four ziths," said Mowry to the attendant who was

blearing behind the counter. He returned to the table, resumed

his seat. "No more bad jokes. I don't appreciate them."

"Forget it," advised Skriva. "We've got a couple of questions

for you."

"You may voice them," agreed Mowry, He accepted a mug

of zith from the attendant, paid him, took a swig; eyed Skriva

with becoming lordliness.

Skriva said, "Who d'you want us to slap down? And how

do we know we're going to get our money?"

"For the first, the victim is Colonel Hage-Ridarta." He

scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper, gave it to the other.

"That is his address."

"I see." Skriva stared at the slip, went on, "And the money?"

"I'll pay you five thousand right now as an act of faith,

fifteen thousand when the job is done." He stopped, gave the

three of them the cold, forbidding eye. "I don't take your word

for the doing. It's got to be squawked on the news-channels

before I part with another one-tenth guilder."

"You trust us a lot, don't you?" said Skriva, scowling.

"No more than I have to."

"Same applies on this side."

"Look," Mowry urged, "we've got to play ball with each

other whether we like it or not. Here's how. I've got a list.

If you do the first job for me and I renege you're not going

to do the others, are you?"

"No."

"What's more, you'll take it out of my hide first chance you

get, won't you?"

"You can bet on that," assured Gurd.

"Similarly, if you pull a fast one on me you will cut off the

flow of money, big money. You'll deprive yourselves of far

more than the Kaitempi would pay for betraying me and a

dozen others. I'm outbidding the Kaitempi by a large margin,

see? Don't you fellows want to get rich?"

"I hate the idea of it," said Skriva. "Let's see that five

thousand."

Mowry slipped him the package under the table. The three

checked it in their laps. After a while Skriva looked up, his

face slightly flushed.

"We're sold. Who is this Hage-Ridarta soko?"

"Just a brasshat who has lived too long"

That was a half-truth. Hage-Ridarta was listed in the city

directory as officer commanding an outfit of space marines.

But his name had been appended to an authoritative letter

in Pigface's files. The tone of the letter had been that of a

boss to an underling. Hage-Ridarta was an officially disguised

occupant of the Kaitempi top bracket and therefore would

make a most satisfactory corpse.

"Why d'you want him out of the way? demanded Gurd,

still sullen and suspicious.

Before Mowry could reply, Skriva said fiercely. “I told you

before to shut up. I'll handle this. Can't you button your trap

even for twenty thousand?"

"We haven't got it yet," persisted Gurd.

"You will get it" Mowry soothed. "And more, lots more.

The day the news of Hage-Ridarta's death is given in the

papers or on the radio I'll be here at the same time in the

evening complete with fifteen thousand guilders and the next

name. If by any chance I'm held up and can't make it, I'll

be here at the same time the following evening."

"You'd better be!" informed Gurd, glowering.

Arhava had a question of his own. "What's my percentage

for introducing the boys?"

"I don't know.” Mowry turned to Skriva. “How much do

you intend to give him?"

`Who? - me?" 5kriva was taken aback.

"Yes, you. The gentleman thirsts far a rakeoff. You don't

expect me to pay him, do you? Think I'm made of money?"

"Somebody had better fork out," declared Arhava, making

the mistake of his life. "Or-"

Skriva shoved scowling features up against him and

breathed over his face. "Or what?"

"Nothing," said Arhava, nervously leaning away. "Nothing

at all."

"That's better," Skriva approved in grating tones. "That's a

whole lot better. Just sit around and be a good boy, Butin,

and we'll feed you crumbs from our table. Get fidgety and

you'll soon find yourself in no condition to eat them. In fact

you won't be able to swallow. It's tough when a fellow can't

swallow. You wouldn't like that, would you, Butin?"

Saying nothing, Arhava sat still. His complexion was slightly

mottled.

Repeating the face-shoving act. Skriva shouted, "I just asked

you a civil question. I said you wouldn't like it, would you?"

"No," admitted Arhava, tilting back his chair to get away

from the face.

Mowry decided the time had come to leave this happy scene.

He took his daring far enough to say to Skriva, "Don't get

tough ideas about me - if you want to stay in business."

With that; he went. He did not worry about the possibility

of any of them following him. They wouldn't dare, being too

afraid of offending the best customer they'd had since crime

came to Pertane.

As he walked rapidly along he pondered the evening's work,

decided it had been a wise move to insist that money did not

grow on trees. They'd have shown no respect whatsoever if

he'd been willing to shovel it out regardless as, in fact, he

could afford to do should the necessity arise. They'd have put

on maximum pressure to gain the most in return for the least

and that would have produced more arguments than results.

It was also a good thing that he'd refused a cut to Arhava

and left them to fight it out between themselves. The reaction

had been revealing. A mob, even a small mob, is only as

strong as its weakest link. Anyone capable of ratting to the

Kaitempi. could blow the whole bunch sky-high. It was

important to discover a prospective squealer before it was too

late and, if one existed, to be warned accordingly. In this

respect Butin Arhava hadn't shown up so good.

`Somebody had better fork out or-'

The testing-time would come soon after he'd paid over

fifteen thousand guilders for a job well done and those concerned

divided the loot. Well, if the situation seemed to justify

it, that's when he'd give the Gurd-Skriva brothers the next

name - that of Butin Arhava. He felt no compunctions about

this decision, no qualms of conscience. So far as he was

involved, all Sirians were enemies, any one of them being no

more or less a foe than any other.

He continued homeward, deep in thought and not looking

where he was going while he settled this matter in his mind.

He had just reached the final conclusion that Arhava's throat

would have to be slit sooner or later when a heavy hand

clamped on his shoulder and a voice rasped in his ear.

"Lift them up, Dreamy, and let's see what you've got in

your pockets. Come on, you're not deaf, lift 'em I said!"

With a sense of sudden shock he raised his arms, felt fingers

start prying into his clothes. Nearby forty or fifty equally

surprised walkers were holding the same pose. A line of

phlegmatic police stood across the street a hundred yards away.

In the opposite direction a second line looked on with the

same indifference. Yet again the random trap had sprung.

Chapter VI

A flood of superfast thoughts raced through his startled

brain as he stood with arms extended above his head. Thank

heavens he'd got rid of that money; they'd have been unpleasantly

inquisitive about so large a sum being carried in one

lump. If they were looking for Shir Agavan they were dead

out of luck. In any case, he wasn't going to let them take him

in, even for questioning. Not if he could help it. Most people

who survived a Kaitempi interrogation did so as physical

wrecks. It would be better at the last resort to break this

searcher's neck and run like blazes.

`If the cops shoot me down it'll be a quicker and easier end.

When Terra gets no more signals from me, Wolf will choose

my successor and feed the poor sap the same -'

"Hi?" The Kaitempi agent broke his train of thought by

holding Mowry's wallet open and gazing with surprise at

Pigface's card reposing therein. The tough expression faded

from his heavy features as if wiped away with a cloth. "One

of us? An officer?" He took a closer look at the other. "But I

do not recognise you."

"You wouldn't," informed Mowry, showing just the right

degree of arrogance. "I arrived only today from H.Q. on

Diracta." He pulled a face. "And this is the reception I get."

"It cannot be helped," apologised the agent. "The revolutionary

movement must be suppressed at all costs and it's as big

a menace here as on any other planet. You know how things

are on Directa well, they're not one whit better on Jaimec."

"It won't last," Mowry responded, speaking with authority.

"On Diracta we expect to make a complete clean-up in the

near future. After that you won't have much trouble here.

The movement will collapse from sheer lack of leadership.

When you cut off the head, the body dies."

"I hope you're right. The Spakum war is enough without

an army of traitors sniping in the rear." He closed the wallet,

gave it back. His other hand held the Krag Wulkin documents

at which he had not yet looked. Waiting for Mowry to pocket

the wallet, he returned the remaining material and. said

jocularly, "Here are your false papers."

"Nothing is false that has been officially issued," said Mowry,

frowning disapproval.

"No, I suppose not. I hadn't thought of it in that light" The

agent backed off, anxious to end the talk. "Sorry to have

troubled you. I suggest you call at local headquarters as soon

as possible and have them circulate your photo so that you'll

be known to us. Otherwise you may be stopped and searched

repeatedly."

"I'll do that," promised Mowry, unable to imagine anything

he'd less intention of doing.

"You'll excuse me - I must tend to these others." So saying,

the agent attracted the attention of the nearest police, pointed

to Mowry. Then he made for a sour-faced civilian wha was

standing nearby waiting to be searched. Reluctantly the

civilian lifted his arms and permitted the agent to dip into

his pockets.

Mowry walked toward the line of police which opened and

let him pass through. At such moments, he thought, one is

supposed to be cool, calm and collected, radiating supreme

self-confidence in all directions. He wasn't like that at all.

On the contrary he was weak in the knees and had a vague

feeling of sickness in the stomach. He had to force himself to

continue steadily onward with what appeared to be absolute

nonchalance.

He made six hundred yards, reached the next corner before

some warning instinct made him look back. Police were still

blocking the road but beyond them four of the Kaitempi had

clustered together in conversation. One of them, the agent who

had released him, pointed his way. The other three shot a

glance in the same direction, resumed talking with vehement

gestures. There followed what appeared to be ten seconds of

heated argument before they reached a decision.

"Stop him!"

The nearest police turned round startled, their eyes seeking

a fleeing quarry. Mowry's legs became filled with an almost

irresistible urge to get going twenty to the dozen. He forced

them by an effort of will to maintain their steady pace.

There were a lot of people in the street, some merely hanging

around and gaping at the trap, others walking the same

way as himself. Most of the latter wanted no part of what

was going on higher up the road and considered it expedient

to amble someplace else. Mowry kept with them, showing no

great hurry. That baffled the police; for a few valuable seconds

they stayed put, hands on weapons, while they sought in vain

for visible evidence of guilt.

It provided sufficient delay to enable him to get round the

corner and out of sight. At that point the shouting Kaitempi

realised that the police were stalled. They lost patience, broke

into a furious sprint. Half a dozen clumping cops immediately

raced with them, still without knowing who was being chased

or why.

Overtaking a youth who was sauntering dozily along,

Mowry gave him an urgent shove in the back. "Quick! -

they're after you! The Kaitempi!"

"I've done nothing. I-"

"How long will it take to convince them of that? Run, you

fool!"

The other used up a few moments gaping sceptically before

he heard the oncoming rush of heavy feet, the raucous shouts

of pursuers nearing the corner. He lost colour, tore down the

road at velocity that paid tribute to his innocence. He'd have

overtaken and passed a bolting jackrabbit with no trouble at

all.

Unhurriedly entering an adjacent shop, Mowry - threw a

swift look around to e what it sold, said casually, "I wish

ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut tops and-"

The arm of the law thundered round the corner fifty strong.

The hunt roared past the shop, its leaders baying with triumph

as they spotted the distant figure of him who had done nothing.

Mowry stared at the window in dumb amazement. The corpulent

Sirian behind the counter eyed the window with sad resignation.

"Whatever is happening?" asked Mowry.

"They're after someone," diagnosed Fatty. He sighed, rubbed

his protruding belly. "Always they are after someone. What a

world! What a war!"

"Makes you tired, hi?"

"Aie, yar! Every day, every minute there is something. Last

night, according to the news-channels, they destroyed the main

Spakum space-fleet for the tenth time. Today they are pursuing

the remnants of what is said to have been destroyed. For

months we have been making triumphant retreats before a

demoralised enemy who is advancing in utter disorder." He

made a sweeping motion with a podgy hand. It indicated

disgust. `I am fat, as you can see. That makes me an idiot. You

wish-?"

"Ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut -"

A belated cop pounded past the window. He was two hundred

yards behind the pack and breathless but plain stubborn.

As he thudded along he let go a couple of shots into the air

just for the heck of it.

"See what I mean?" said Fatso. "You wish-?"

"Ten of those small cakes with the toasted-nut tops. I also

wish to order a special celebration-cake to be supplied five

days hence. Perhaps you can show me some examples or help

me with suggestions, hi?"

He managed to waste twenty minutes within the shop and

the time was well worth the few guilders it cost. If he'd wanted

he could have stayed longer. Twenty minutes, he estimated,

would be just enough to permit local excitement to die down

while the pursuit continued elsewhere. But the longer he

extended the time the greater the risk of falling into the hands

of frustrated huntsmen who'd returned to comb out the area.

Halfway home he was tempted to donate the cakes to a

mournful looking cop, but refrained. The time for having fun

had gone by and some restraint was called for. The more he

had to dodge authority's frantic fly-swattings the harder it

was to play like a wasp and get a laugh out of it.

Within his room he flopped fully dressed on the bed and

summarised the day's doings. He had escaped a trap but only

by the skin of his teeth. It proved that such traps were

escap-able - but not for ever. What had caused them to take after

him he did not know, could only guess at. Probably the

intervention of an officious character who had noticed him

walking through the cordon.

"Who's that you've let go?"

"An officer, Captain."

"What d'you mean, an officer?"

"A Kaitempi officer, Captain. I do not know him but he had

a correct card. He said that he had just been drafted from

Diracta."

"A card, hi? Did you notice its serial number?"

"I had no particular reason to try remember it, Captain.

It was obviously genuine. But let me see ... yar ... it was

SXB80313. Or perhaps SXB80131. I am not sure which."

"Major Sallana's card was SXB80131. You half-witted soko,

you may have had his killer in your hands!"

"STOP HIM!"

Now, by virtue of the fact that he had evaded capture, plus

the fact that he had failed to turn up at headquarters to gain

photographic identification, they'd assume that Sallana's slayer

really had been in the net. Previously they had not known

where to start looking other than within the ranks of the

mysteriously elusive D.A.G. But they had gained three welcome

advantages. They knew the killer was in Pertane. They

had a description of him. One Kaitempi agent could be relied

upon to recognise him on sight.

In other words, the heat was on with every likelihood of

getting hotter. Numberless eyes would be keeping watch for

anyone bearing close resemblance to himself. The snap-search

technique would be intensified, the net spread wider and with

greater frequency. In these conditions he'd have to go around

daytimes carrying stuff guaranteed to make the Kaitempi lick

their chops like hungry tigers. Some evenings he'd have to go

to the Cafe Susun bearing a load of money that no searcher

in his right mind would regard as a beggar's alms.

Henceforth, in Pertane at least, the going would be tougher

with the pressure-cell and the strangling-post looming ever

nearer. He groaned to himself as he thought of it. He had .

never asked much of life and would have been quite satisfied

merely to sprawl on a golden throne and be fawned upon by

sycophants. To be dropped down a Sirian-dug hole, dead cold

and dyed purple, was to take things too much to the opposite

extreme.

But to counterbalance this dismal prospect there was

something heartening - a snatch of conversation.

`The revolutionary movement ... as big a menace here as

on any other planet. You know how things are on Diracta -

well, they're not one whit better on Jaimec.'

That told him plenty; it revealed that Dirac Angestun

Gesept was not merely a Wolf-concocted nightmare designed

to disturb the sleep of Jaimecan politicos. It was empire-wide,

covering more than a hundred planets, its strength or rather

its pseudo-strength greatest on the home-world of Diracta,

the nerve-centre and beating heart of the entire Sirian species.

It was more than a hundred times greater than had appeared

to him in his purely localised endeavours.

To the Sirian powers-that-be it was a major peril hacking

down the back door while the Terrans were busily bashing

in the front one.

Cheers! Blow the bugle, beat the drum! Other wasps were

at work, separated in space but united in purpose. And in

this sense he was not alone.

Somebody in the Sirian High Command - a psychologist or

a cynic - worked it out that the more one chivvied the civilian

population the lower sank its morale. The constant stream of

new emergency orders, regulations, restrictions, the constant

police and Kaitempi activity, stoppings, searchings,

questionings all tended to create that dull, pessimistic

resignation demonstrated by Fatty . in the cake shop. An

antidote was needed. The citizens had bread. They lacked the

circus.

Accordingly a show was put on. The radio, video and newspapers

combined to strike up the band and draw the crowds.

GREAT VICTORY IN CENTAURI SECTOR.

Yesterday powerful Terran space-forces became trapped in

the region of A. Centauri and a fierce battle raged as they

tried to break out. The Sirian fourth, sixth and seventh fleets,

manoeuvring in masterly manner, frustrated all their efforts

to get free and escape. Many casualties were inflicted upon

the enemy. Precise figures are not yet available but the latest

report from the area of conflict states that we have lost four

battleships and one light cruizer, the crews of which havc all

been rescued. More than seventy Terran warships have been

destroyed.

And so the story went on for minutes of time and columns

of print, complete with pictures of the battleship Hashim, the

heavy cruizer Jaimec, some members of their crews when

home on leave a year ago, Rear-Admiral Pent-Gurhana saluting

a prosperous navy contractor, the Statue of Jaime casting

its shadow across a carefully positioned Terran banner and -

loveliest touch of all - a five centuries old photograph of a

scowling, bedraggled bunch of Mongolian bandits authoritatively

described as `Terran space-troops whom we snatched

from death as their stricken ship plunged sunward.'

One columnist, graciously admitting lack of facts and

substituting so-called expert knowledge, devoted half a page to

a lurid description of how heroic space-marines had performed

the snatch-from-death in vacuo. How fortunate were the lousy

Terrans, he proclaimed, in finding themselves opposed by so

daring and gallant a foe.

Mowry absorbed all this guff, found himself unable to decide

whether casualty figures had bcen reversed or whether a fight

had taken place at all. Dismissing it with a sniff of disdain,

he sought through the rest of the paper without really expecting

to find anything worthy of note. But there was a small

item on the back page.

Colonel Hage-Ridarta, officer commanding 77 Company

S.M. was found dead in his car at midnight last night. He had

been shot through the head. A gun was lying nearby. Suicide

is not suspected and police investigations are continuing.

So the Gurd-Skriva combination worked mighty fast; they'd

done the job within a few hours of taking it on. Yar, money

was a wonderful thing especially when Terran engravers and

presses could produce it in unlimited supply with little trouble

and at small cost. Money was a formidable weapon in its own

right, a paper totem that could cause losses in the enemy's

ranks millions of miles behind the fighting front.

This unexpected promptitude set him a new problem. To

get more such action he'd have to pay up and thereby risk

falling into another trap while on the way to the rendezvous.

Right now he dare not show Pigface's card in Pertane though

it might prove useful elsewhere. His documents for Krag

Wulkin, special correspondent, might possibly get him out of

a jam provided the trappers didn't search further, find him

loaded with guilders and ask difficult questions about so

suspiciously large a wad.

Within an hour the High Command solved the problem for

him. They put on the circus in the form of a victory parade.

To the beat and blare of a dozen bands a great column of

troops, tanks, guns, mobile radar units, flame-throwers, rocket-

batteries and gas-projectors, tracked recovery vehicles and

other paraphenalia crawled into Pertane from the west,

tramped and rumbled toward the east.

Helicopters and jetplanes swooped at low level, a small

number of nimble space-scouts thundered at great altitude.

Citizens assembled in their thousands, lined the streets and

cheered more from habit than from genuine enthusiasm.

This, Mowry realised, was his heaven-sent opportunity.

Snap-searches might continue down the side streets and in

the city's tough quarters but they'd be wellnigh impossible

on the east-west artery with all that military traffic passing

through. lf he could reach the crosstown route he could head

clean out of Pertane with safety. After that he could dance

around elsewhere until the time was ripe to return attention

to the capital.

He paid his miserly landlord two months rent in advance

without creating more than joyful surprise. Then he checked

his false identity papers. Hurriedly he packed his bag with

guilders, a fresh supply of stickers, a couple of small packages

and got out.

No sudden traps opened out between there and the city

centre; even if they ran around like mad the police could not

be everywhere at once. On the east-west road he carried his

bag unnoticed, being of less significance than a grain of sand

amid the great mob of spectators that had assembled. By the

same token progress was difficult and slow. The route was

crowded almost to the walls. Time and again he had to shove

his way past the backs of an audience which had its full

attention on the road.

Many of the shops he passed had boarded-up windows as

evidence that they had been favoured by his propaganda.

Others displayed new glass and on twenty-seven of these he

slapped more stickers while a horde of potential witnesses

stood on tiptoe, stared over their fellows at the military

procession. One sticker he plastered on a policeman's back, the

broad, inviting stretch of black cloth proving irresistible. The

cop gaped forward along with the crowd, ignored pressure

behind him and got decorated from shoulder to shoulder.

Who will pay for this war?

Those who started it will pay.

With their money - and their lives.

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

After three hours of edging, pushing and some surreptitious

sticker-planting he arrived at the city's outskirts. Here the

tail-end of the parade was still trundling noisily along.

Standing spectators had thinned out but a straggling group of

goon-fanciers were walking in pace with the troops.

Around stood houses of a suburb too snooty to deserve the

attentions of the police and Kaitempi. Ahead stretched the

open country and the road to Radine. He carried straight on,

following the rearmost troops until the procession turned

leftward and headed for the great military stronghold of

Khamasta. Here the accompanying civilians halted and

watched them go before mooching back to Pertane. Bag in

hand, Mowry continued along the Radine road.

Moodiness afflicted him as he walked. He became obsessed

with the notion that he had been chased out of the city even

if only temporarily and he didn't like it. Every step he took

seemed like another triumph for the foe, another defeat for

himself. Given the free choice he'd have stayed put, accepting

increasing risks as they came, glorying in meeting and beating

them. He didn't have a free choice, not really.

At the training college they had lectured him again and

again to the same effect. `Maybe you like having a mulish

character. Well, in some circumstances it's called courage, in

others it's downright stupidity. You've got to resist the

temptation to indulge unprofitable heroics. Never abandon caution

merely because you think it looks like cowardice. It requires

guts to sacrifice one's ego for the sake of the job. Those are

the sort of guts we want and must have. A dead hero is of no

earthly use to us.'

Humph! easy for them to talk, hard for those who have to

listen and obey. He was still aggrieved when he reached a

permasteel plaque standing by the roadside. It said: Radine -

33 den. He looked in both directions, found nobody in sight.

Opening his bag he took out a package and buried it at the

base of the plaque.

That evening he checked in at Radine's best and most expensive

hotel. If the Jaimecan authorities succeeded in following

his tortuous trail around Pertane they'd notice his penchant

for hiding out in overcrowded, slummy areas and tend

to seek him in the planet's rat-holes. With luck a high-priced

hotel would be the last place in which they'd look for him

if the search spread wider afield. All the same he'd have to

be wary of the routine check of hotel registers which the

Kaitempi made every now and again regardless.

Dumping his bag he left the room at once. Time was pressing.

He hurried along the road, unworried about snap-searches

which for unknown reasons were confined to the capital, and

had not yet been applied to other cities. Reaching a bank of

public phone booths a mile from the hotel, he made a call to

Pertane. A sour voice answered while the booth's tiny screen

remained blank.

"Cafe Susun."

"Skriva there?"

"Who wants him?"

"Me."

"That tells me a lot. Why've you got that scanner switched

off?"

"Listen who's talking," growled Mowry, eyeing his faceless

screen. "You fetch Skriva and let him cope with his own

troubles. You aren't his paid secretary, are you?"

There came a loud snort, a long silence, then Skriva's voice

sounded. "Who's this?'

"Give me your pic and I'll give you mine."

"I know who it is-I recognise the tones" said Skriva. He

switched his scanner, his unpleasing features gradually

bloomed into the screen. Mowry switched likewise. Skriva

frowned at him with dark suspicion. "Thought you were going

to meet us here. Why are you phoning?"

"I've been called out of town and can't get back for a piece."

"Is thar so?"

"Yar, that is so!" snapped Mowry. "And don't get hard with

me because I won't stand for it, see?" He paused to let it sink

in, went on, "You got a dyno?"

"Maybe," said Skriva, evasively.

"Can you leave right away?"

"Maybe."

"If you want the goods you can cut out the maybes and move

fast." Mowry held his phone before the scanner, tapped it

suggestively, pointed to his ears to indicate that one never

knew who was listening-in these days and might perhaps have

to be beaten to it. "Get onto the Radine road and look under

marker 33-den. Don't take Arhava with you."

"Hey, when will you -"

He slammed down the phone, cutting off the other's irate

query. Next he sought the local Kaitempi H.Q. the address

of which had been revealed in Pigface's secret correspondence.

In short time he passed the buildings, keeping as far from

it as possible on the other side of the street. He did not give

close attention to the building itself, his gaze being

concentrated above it. For the next hour he wandered around

Radine with seeming aimlessness, still studying the areas above

the rooftops.

Eventually satisfied he looked for the city hall, found it,

repeated the process. More erratic mooching from street to

street while apparently admiring the stars. Finally He returned

to the hotel.

Next morning he took a small package from his bag,

pocketed it, made straight for a large business block noted

the previous evening. With a convincing air of self-assurance

he entered the building, took the automatic elevator to the

top floor. Here he found a dusty, seldom-used passage with

a drop-ladder at one end.

There was nobody around. Even if somebody had come

along they might not have been unduly curious. Anyway, he

had all his answers ready. Pulling down the ladder he climbed

it swiftly, got through the trap-door at top and onto the roof.

From his package he took a tiny inductance-coil fitted with

clips and attached to a long, hair-thin cable with plug-in

terminals at its other end.

Climbing a short trellis mast, he counted the wires on the

telephone junction at its top, checked the direction in which

the seventh one ran. To this he carefully fastened the coil.

Then he descended, led the cable to the roof's edge, gently

paid it out until it was .dangling full length into the road

below. Its plug-in terminals were now swinging in the air at

a point about four feet above the pavement.

Even as he looked down from the roof half a dozen pedestrians

passed the hanging cable and showed no interest in it.

A couple of them glanced idly upward, saw somebody above

and wandered onward without remark. Nobody questions the

activities of a man who clambers over roofs or disappears

down grids in the street providing he does it openly and with

quiet confidence.

He got down and out without mishap. Within an hour he

had performed the same feat atop another building and again

got away unchallenged. His next move was to purchase another

typewriter, paper, envelopes, a small hand-printing set.

It was still only mid-day when he returned to his room and

set to work as fast as he could go. The task continued without

abate all that day and most of the next day. When he had

finished the hand-printer and typewriter slid silently into the

lake.

The result was the placing in his case of two hundred and

twenty letters for future use and the immediate mailing of

another two hundred and twenty to those who had received

his first warning. The recipients, he hoped, would be far from

charmed by the arrival of a second letter with a third yet to

come.

Hage-Ridarta was the second.

The list is long.

Dirac Angestnn Gesept.

After lunch he consulted yesterday's and today's newspapers

at which he'd been too busy to look before now. The

item he sought was not there: not a word about the late

lamented Butin Arhava. Momentarily he wondered whether

anything had gone wrong, whether the Gurd-Skriva brothers

had jibbed at his choice of a victim or whether they were

merely being slow on the uptake.

The general news was much as usual. Victory still loomed

nearer and nearer. Casualties in the real or mythical A.

Centauri battle were now officially confirmed at eleven Sirian

warships, ninety-four Terran ones. That data was given a

front-page spread and a double column of editorial hallelujahs.

On an inner page, in an inconspicuous corner, it was

announced that Sirian forces had abandoned the twin worlds

of Fedira and Fedora, the forty-seventh and forty-eighth

planets of the empire, `for strategic reasons.' It was also hinted

that Gooma, the sixty-second planet, might soon be given up

also, `in order to enable us to strengthen our positions

elsewhere.'

So they were admitting something that could no longer be

denied, namely, that two planets had gone down the drain

with a third soon to follow. Although they had not said so it

was pretty certain that what they had given up the Terrans

had grabbed. Mowry grinned to himself as words uttered in

the cake-shop came back to his mind.

`For months we have been making triumphant retreats

before a demoralised enemy advancing in utter disorder.'

He went along the road, called the Cafe Susun. "Did you

collect?"

"We did," said Skriva, "and the next consignment is overdue."

"I've read nothing about it"

"You wouldn't nothing having been written"

"Well, I told you before that I pay when I've had proof.

Until I get it, nothing doing. No proof, no dough."

"We've got the evidence. It's up to you to take a look at it."

Mowry thought swiftly. "Still got the dyno handy?"

"Yar."

"Maybe you'd better meet me. Make it the ten-time hour.

same road, Marker den-8"

The car arrived dead on time. Mowry stood by the marker,

a dim figure in the darkness of night with only fields and trees

around. The car rolled up, headlights glaring. Skriva got out,

took a small sack from the trunk, opened its top and exhibited

its contents in the blaze of the lights.

"God in heaven!" said Mowry, his stomach jumping.

"It's a ragged job," admitted Skriva. "He had a tough neck,

the knife was blunt and Gurd was in a hurry. What's the

matter? You squeamish or something?"

"I'd have liked it less messy. A bullet would have been

neater."

"You're not paying for neatness. If you want it done sweet

and clean and tidy say so and jack up the offer."

"I'm not complaining"

"You bet you're not. Butin's the boy who's entitled to gripe."

He kicked the sack. "Aren't you, Butin?"

"Get rid of it," ordered Mowry. "It's spoiling my appetite."

Letting go a grim chuckle, Skriva tossed the sack into an

adjacent ditch, put out a hand. "The money."

Giving him the package, Mowry waited in silence while

the other checked the contents inside the car with the help

of Gurd. They thumbed the neat stack of notes lovingly, with

much licking of lips and mutual congratulations.

When they had finished Skriva chuckled again. "That was

twenty thousand for nothing. We couldn't have got it easier."

"What d'you mean, for nothing?" Mowry asked.

"We'd have done it anyway, whether you'd named him or

not. Butin was making ready to talk. You could see it in the

slimy soko's eyes. What d'you say, Gurd?"

Gurd contented himself with a neck-wringing gesture.

Leaning on the car's door, Mowry said, "I've got another

and different kind of job for you. Feel like taking it on?"

Without waiting for response he exhibited another package.

"In here are ten small gadgets. They're fitted with clips and

have thin lengths of cable attached. I want these contraptions

fastening, to telephone lines in or near the centre of Pertane.

They've got to be set in place to that they aren't visible from

the street but the cables can be seen hanging down."

"But," objected Skriva, "if the cables can be seen it's only a

matter of time before somebody traces them up to the gadgets.

Where's the sense of hiding what is sure to be found?'"

"Where's the sense of me giving you good money to do it?"

Mowry riposted.

"How much?"

"Five thousand guilders apiece. That's fifty thousand for

the lot"

Skriva pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

"I can check whether you've actually fixed them," Mowry

went on, "so don't try kidding me, see? We're in business

to-gether. Better not kiss the partnership goodbye."

Grabbing the package, Skriva rasped, "I think you're crazy

but who am I to complain?"

Headlights brightened, the car set up a shrill whine and

rocked away. Mowry watched until it had gone from sight,

then he tramped back into Radine, made for the public booths

and phoned Kaitempi H.Q. He was careful to keep his scanner

switched off and try give his voice the singsong tones of a

native Jaimecan.

"Somebody's been decapitated."

"Hi?"

"There's a head in a sack near Marker 8-den on the road

to Pertane."

"Whos' that talking? Who-"

He cut off, leaving the voice to gargle futilely. They'd follow

up the tip, no doubt of that. It was essential to his plans that

authority should find the head and identify it. In this respect

he was persuading the Kaitempi to help play his game and he

got quite a bit of malicious satisfaction out of it. He went to

his hotel, came out, mailed two hundred and twenty letters.

Butin Arhava was the third.

The list is long.

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

That done, he enjoyed an hour's stroll before bedtime,

pacing the streets and as usual pondering the day's work. It

would not be long, he thought, before someone became curious

about hanging cables and an electrician or telephone engineer

was called in to investigate. The inevitable result would be

a hurried examination of Jaimec's entire telephone system and

the discovery of several more taps.

Authority would then find itself confronted with three

unanswerable questions, all of them ominous: who's been

listening, for how long, and how much have they learned?

He did not envy those in precarious power who were being

subjected to this mock build-up of treachery while elsewhere

the allegedly defeated Terrans were gaining sanctuary by

taking over Sirian planets one after another. Uneasy lies the

head that wears a crown - but infinitely more so when a wasp

crawls into bed with it.

A little before the twelve-time hour he turned into the road

where his high-class hideout was located, came to an abrupt

halt. Outside the hotel stood a line of official cars, a fire-pump

and an ambulance. A number of uniformed cops were meandering

around the vehicles. Tough looking characters in plain

clothes were all over the scene.

Two of the latter appeared out of nowhere and confronted

him hard-eyed.

"What's happened?" asked Mowry, behaving like a Sunday

school superintendent.

"Never mind what's happened. Show us your documents.

Come on, what are you waiting for?"

Chapter VII

CAREFULLY MOWRY SLID a hand into his inner pocket. They

were tense, fully alert, watching his movement and ready to

react if what he produced was not paper. He drew out his

identity-card, handed it over knowing that it bore the proper

cachet of Diracta and the overstamp of Jaimec. Then he gave

them his personal card and movement permit. Inwardly he

hoped with all his heart that they would be easily convinced.

They weren't. They displayed the dogged determination of

those under strict orders to make someone pay dearly for

something or other. Evidently whatever had occurred was

serious enough to have stirred up a hornet's nest.

"A special correspondent," said the larger of the two

mouthing the words with contempt. He looked up from the

identity-card. `What is special about a correspondent?"

"I've been sent here to cover war news specifically from the

Jaimec angle. I do not bother with civilian matters. Those

are for ordinary reporters."

"I see: He gave Mowry a long, sharp, penetrating look. His

eyes had the beady coldness of a sidewinder's. `From where

do you get your news about the war?"

"From official handouts - mostly from the Office of War

Information in Pertane."

"You have no other sources?"

"Yes, of course. I keep my ears open for gossip and

rumours."

"And what do you do with that stuff?"

"I try draw reasonable conclusions from it, write it up and

submit the script to the Board of Censorship. If they approve

it, I'm lucky. If they kill it, well" - he spread his hands with

an air of helplessness - "I just put up with it."

"Therefore," said the Kaitempi agent, cunningly, "you should

be well-known to officials of the Office of War Information

and the Board of Censorship, hi? They will vouch for you if

requested to do so, hi?"

"Without a doubt," assured Mowry, praying for a break.

"Good! You will name the ones you know best and we will

check with them immediately."

" What, at this time of night?"

"Why should you care what time it is? It is your neck-"

That did it. Mowry punched him on the snout, swiftly,

fiercely, putting every ounce of weight behind the blow. The

recipient went down good and hard and stayed down. The

other fellow was no slouch. Wasting no time in dumbfoundment,

he took a bow-legged but quick step forward, shoved a

gun into Mowry's face.

"Raise them high, you soko, or I'll -"

With the speed and recklessness of one who is desperate,

Mowry ducked under the gun, seized the other's extended arm;

got it over his shoulder and yanked. The agent let out a thin,

piercing yelp and flew through the air with the greatest of

ease. His gun dropped to ground. Mowry scooped it up and

started the sprint of his life.

Round the corner, along the street and into an alley This

took him by the back of his hotel and as he tore past he noted

out the corner of one eye a window missing and a great ragged

hole in the wall. Hurdling a pile of smashed bricks and

splintered timber, he reached the alley's end, shot across the next

street.

So that was it. Somehow they had smelled him out, possibly

as a result of one of those infernal registration checks. They

had searched his room and tried to open his bag with a metal

master-key. Then had come the big bang. If the room had

been crowded at the time the explosion would have enough

force to kill at least a dozen of them. It would be a blow

sufficient to get their blood up for a month. If ever they laid

hands on him ...

He kept going as fast as he could make it, the gun in his

grip, his ears straining for sounds of pursuit. Pretty soon the

radio alarm would be going over the air, they'd close every

exit from the town, blocking trains, buses, roads, everything.

At all costs he must beat them to it by getting outside the

cordon before it was formed-if it could be done.

As far as possible he tried to race through lanes and alleys,

avoiding main roads on which patrol-cars would be running

to and fro loaded with guns and eyes. At this late hour there

were few people about, no crowds in which to hide. The streets

were almost empty with most folk abed and an armed man

sprinting through the night was mighty conspicuous. But

nothing could be done about that. To mooch with an air of

innocence was to give time for the trap to close about him.

Darkness was his only help, not counting his legs. He

pounded through alley after alley, bolted across six streets,

halted in deep shadow as he was about to jump the seventh.

A car bulging with uniformed cops and plainclothes Kaitempi

slid past, its windows full of faces trying to look everywhere

at once.

For a short time he stood silent and unmoving in the

shadow, heart thumping, chest heaving, a trickle of sweat

creeping down his spine. Immediately the hunters had gone

he was across the street, into the opposite alley and racing

onward. Five times he paused in concealment, mentally

cursing the delay, while prowl-cars, snooped around.

The sixth stop was different. He lurked in the alley's corner

as headlights came up the street. A mud-spattered dyno rolled

into view, stopped within twenty yards of him. The next

moment a solitary civilian got out, went to a nearby door and

shoved a key into its lock. Mowry came out the alley like a.

quick-moving cat.

The door opened just as the car shot away with a shrill

scream from its dynamo. Struck with surprise, the civilian

wasted half a minute gaping after his vanishing property. Then

he let go an oath, ran indoors and snatched up the telephone.

Luck has got to be mixed decided Mowry as he gripped

the wheel. There must be good to compensate for bad, a turn

for the better to balance a change for the worse. Swinging

the car into a broad, well-lit avenue, he slowed it to a more

sedate pace.

Two overloaded patrol-cars passed him going in the opposite

direction, another overtook him and rocked ahead. They

weren't interested in a dirty dyno trundling home late; they

were hunting a breathless fugitive assumed to be still galloping

around on two feet. He estimated that it would be no more

than another ten minutes before the radio made them change

their minds. It might have been better if he had shot the car's

owner and thus gained himself extra valuable minutes. But

he hadn't. Too late to regret the omission now.

After seven minutes he passed the last houses of Radine

and headed into open country along an unfamiliar road. At

once he hit up top speed to make maximum distance while

the going was good. The car howled along, headlight beams

dipping and swaying, the den-needle creeping close to its

limit.

Twenty more minutes and he shot like a rocket through a

long, straggling village buried deep in slumber. One mile

farther on he rounded a bend, got a brief glimpse of a white

pole across the road, the glitter of buttons and shine of metal

helmets grouped at each end. He set his teeth, aimed straight

at the middle without reducing speed by a fraction. The car

hit the pole, flung the broken halves aside and raced on.

Something struck five sharp blows on the back, two neat holes

appeared in the rear window, a third where the windshield .

joined the roof.

That showed the radio-alarm had been given, that forces

had been alerted over a wide area. His crashing of the road-

block was a giveaway. They now knew in which direction he

was fleeing and could concentrate ahead of him. Just where

he was going was more than he knew himself. He'd never

been on this road before, the locale was strange and he had

no map to consult. Worse, he had little money and no documents

of any kind. The loss of his case had deprived him of

everything save what was upon his person, plus a hot car and

a stolen gun.

Soon he reached a crossroad with a marker dimly visible

on each corner. Braking violently, he jumped out, peered at

the nearest one in the poor light of night. It said Radine-27

den. The opposite marker said Valapan-92 den. So that's

where he'd been heading-to Valapan. Doubtless the police

there were out in full strength, a reception committee too well

prepared to permit another crash-through.

The marker on the left-hand road read Pertane-51 den.

He clambered back into the car, turned left. Still no signs of

close pursuit were visible but that meant nothing. Somebody

with radio contact and a big map would be moving cars

around to head him off as reports of his position filtered in.

At the marker indicating 9 den he found another crossroad

which he recognised. The sky-glow of Pertane now shone

straight ahead while on his right was the road leading to the

cave in the forest. He took an added risk of interception by

driving the car a couple of miles nearer Pertane before

abandoning it. When they found it there they'd probably jump to

the conclusion that he'd sought refuge somewhere in the big

city. It would be all to the good if they wasted time and

manpower scouring Pertane from end to end.

Walking back, he reached the forest and continued along

its fringe. It took him two hours to arrive at the tree and the

tombstone. During that period he dived into the woods eleven

times and watched carloads of hunters whine past. Looked

like he'd got a veritable army to chasing around in the night

and that was a worthwhile result if Wolf was to be believed.

Entering the forest, he made for the cave.

At the cave he found everything intact, undisturbed. He

arrived thankfully, feeling that he was as safe here as he could

be anywhere upon a hostile world. It was hardly likely that

the hunt would succeed in tracking him through twenty miles

of virgin forest even if it occurred to them to try.

For a short time he sat on a container and let his mind indulge

a wrestling match between duty and desire, Orders were

that on each visit to the cave he must use the transmitter and

send an up-to-the-minute report. There was no need to guess

what might happen if he were to do so this time. They'd order

him to stay put and indulge no further activities. Later they'd

send a ship, pick him up and dump him on some other Sirian

planet where he could start all over again. On Jaimec they'd

leave his successor.

The idea of it riled him. All very well them talking about

the tactical advantages of replacing a known operator with

an unknown one. To the man who suffered replacement it

smacked of incompetence and defeat. He flatly refused to

consider himself either inefficient or beaten. Hell with 'em!

Maybe the Kaitempi had gained a smell at his whiskers but

that didn't make him as good as theirs.

Besides, he had carried out phase one and part of phase

two. There was yet phase three, the build-up of pressure to

the point where the foe would be so busy defending the back

door that he'd be in no condition to hold the front one.

Phase three involved strategic bombing both by himself and

by anyone he could pay to do it. He had the necessary material

for the former and the money for the latter. In yet unopened

containers lay enough money to buy a dozen battleships and

give every man of their crews a large box of cigars. Also forty

different kinds of infernal machines, not one of them

recognisable for what it was, and all guaranteed to go whump in

the right place, at the right moment.

He was not supposed to start offensive action of the phase

three type until ordered to do so because usually it preceded

full-scale attack by Terran space-forces. But in the meantime

he could work his way up to it by keeping Dirac Angestun

Gesept in the public eye, arranging a few more executions

and in general performing his proper function of being a pain

in the neck.

No, he would not signal them just yet. He would play

around a bit longer, long enough to establish his right to

re-main to the bitter end regardless of whether or not the

Kaitempi had him taped. He'd been run out of Radine but

he wasn't going to be chased right off the planet. That would

be too much for his self-esteem.

Opening a couple of containers, he undressed, put on a

wide belly-belt that made him corpulent with guilders. Then

he donned ill-cut, heavy clothes typical of the Sirian farmer.

A couple of cheek-pads widened and rounded his face. He

plucked his eyebrows into slight raggedness, trimmed his hair

to comply with the current agricultural fashion.

With purple dye he gave his face the peculiar mottling of

a bad complexion. The final touch was to give himself an

injection alongside his right nostril; within two hours it would

create that faint orange-coloured blemish occasionally seen

on Sirian features.

He was now a middle-aged, coarse looking and somewhat

overfed Sirian farmer and again he had documents to match.

This time he was Rathan Gusulkin, a grain-grower. His papers

showed that he had emigrated from Diracta five years ago.

This served to explain his Mashambi accent which was the

only thing he could not successfully conceal.

Before setting out in his new role he enjoyed another real

Earth-meal and four hours of much-needed sleep. When two

miles from the outskirts of Pertane he buried a package holding

fifty thousand guilders at the base of the southernmost

left-hand buttress of the bridge across the river. Not far from

that point, beneath deep water, a typewriter lay in the mud.

From the first booth in Pertane he called the Cafe Susun.

The answer was prompt, the voice strange and curt, the

distant scanner not operating.

"That the Cafe Susun?" Mowry asked.

"Yar."

"Skriva there?"

A brief silence followed by, "He's somewhere around.

Upstairs or out back. Who wants him?"

"His mother."

"Don't give me that!" rasped the voice. "I can tell by your-"

"What's it got to do with you?" Mowry shouted. "Is Skriva

there or not?"

The voice became suddenly subdued and sounded completely

out of character as it cajoled. "Hold on a piece. I'll go

find him for you."

"You needn't bother. Is Gurd there?"

"No, he hasn't been in today. Hold on, I tell you. I'll go find

Skriva. He's upstairs or -"

"Listen !" ordered Mowry. He stuck his tongue between his

lips and blew hard.

Then he dropped the phone, scrambled out the booth and

beat it at the fastest pace that would not attract attention.

Nearby a bored shopkeeper lounged in his doorway and idly

watched him go. So also did four people gossiping outside

the shop. That meant five witnesses, five descriptions of the

fellow who had just used the booth.

`Hold on!' the strange voice had urged, striving but failing

to conceal its normal note of arrogant authority. It wasn't the

voice of the barkeep nor the careless, slangy tones of any

frequenter of the Cafe Susun. It had the characteristic

bossiness of a plainclothes cop or a Kaitempi agent. Yar, hold on,

Stupid, while we trace the call and pick you up.

Three hundred yards along the road he jumped a bus,

looked backward, could not discern whether the shopkeeper

and the gossips had noticed what he had done. The bus lumbered

forward. A police car rocked past it and braked by the

booth. The bus turned a corner. Mowry wondered just how

close a close shave can be.

The Cafe Susun was staked, no doubt of that. The cops'

prompt arrival at the booth proved it. How they had got a

line on the place and what had induced them to raid it was

a matter of sheer speculation. Perhaps they'd been led to it by

their investigations of the bloody head in a sack.

Or perhaps Gurd and Skriva had been nabbed while tramping

heavy-footed all over a roof and waving cables across a

street. He could readily imagine them fixing a mock telephone

tap with a thumping noisiness fit to arouse the street. On a

rooftop, blinded by easy money, they were liable to make

themselves as conspicuous as a pair of drunken elephants.

If they had been caught they'd talk, tough as they were.

The Kaitempi would make them talk. When fingernails are

peeled off one by one with a pair of pliers, or when

intermittent voltage from a battery is applied to the corners

of the eyeballs, the most granite-hard character becomes

positively garrulous.

Yes, they'd talk all right but they couldn't say much. Only

a weird tale about a crackpot with a Mashambi accent and an

inexhaustible supply of guilders. Not a word about Dirac

Angestun Gesept. Not a syllable about Terran intervention

on Jaimec.

But there were others who could talk and to better effect.

"You see anyone leave this booth just now?"

"Yar. A fat yokel. Seemed in a hurry"

"Where'd he go?"

"Down the road. Got an a 42 bus."

"What did he look like? Describe him as accurately as you

can. Come on, be quick about it!"

"Medium height, middle-aged, round-faced, got a bad complexion.

Quite a belly on him, too. Had a red falkin alongside

his nose. Wearing a fur jacket, brown cord pants, heavy brown

boots. Looked the farmer type if you get what I mean."

That's enough for us. Jalek, let's get after that bus. Where's

the mike - I'd better broadcast this description. We'll nail him

if we move fast"

"He's a cunning one. Didn't take him long to smell a trap

when Lathin answered his call. He blew a dirty noise and ran.

Bet you the bus-jump is a blind-he's got a car parked someplace."

"Save your breath and catch up with that bus. Two callers

have escaped us already. We'll have a lot of explaining to do

if we lose a third."

"Yar, I know."

Mowry got off the bus before anyone had time to overtake

it. He caught another one running on a transverse route. But

he did not play tag all over the city as he had done in the past.

Right now things were a lot livelier, the pursuers almost

certainly had a description. of him and it looked like he'd got

most of Jaimec on the hop.

His third change put him on an express bus heading out

of town. It dropped him a mile beyond the bridge where he

had hidden fifty thousand guilders for the benefit of those

who, for all he knew, might not have another fifty hours to

live. Once again he was heading back to the forest and the

cave.

To retrace his steps to the bridge and try unearth the money

would be stupid and dangerous. Police cars would be heading

this way before long. The hunt for a pot-bellied farmer would

not be confined to Pertane. Anytime now they'd start probing

the rural areas immediately outside the city limits. So long

as daylight remained the best thing for him to do was to get

out of sight and stay out until such time as he could assume

yet another new guise.

Moving fast he reached the edge of the forest without being

stopped and questioned. For a short time he continued to use

the road, seeking shelter among the trees whenever a car

approached. But traffic increased and vehicles appeared with

such frequency that eventually he gave up hope of further

progress before dark. He was pretty tired too, his eyelids were

heavy, his feet had taken a beating.

Penetrating farther into the woods he found a comfortable,

well-concealed spot, lay on a thick bed of moss and let go a

sigh of satisfaction. For a while he reposed in thoughtful

silence while his eyes idly surveyed small patches of sky

visible through leafy gaps.

Wolf had asserted that one man could pin down an army.

He wondered how large a number he'd fastened and what

real good it had done, if any. The most frustrating thing about

this solitary wasp-life was that he had no way of obtaining a

glimpse behind the scenes, of looking into the enemy's

head-quarters and measuring his multiple reactions, of seeing for

oneself how widespread and crippled they became.

How many precious man-hours had his presence cost the

foe? Thousands, tens of thousands, millions? To what forms

of war service would those man-hours have been devoted if

he had not compelled the enemy to waste them in other

directions? Ah, in the answer to that hypothetical question

lay the true measure of a wasp's efficiency.

Gradually he gave up these unprofitable musings and drifted

into sleep. Night was upon him when he awoke refreshed and

energetic. He was also less soured with events. Things could

have been worse, lots worse. For example, he could have gone

straight to the Cafe Susun and walked into the arms of the

trappers like a prize chump. The Kaitempi wouldn't know

what they had grabbed but they'd hold him on general

principles and in their own effective way they'd squeeze him of

every item of information he possessed. Thinking it over, he

doubted his ability to hold out once they really got to work

on him. About the only captives from whom the Kaitempi

had extracted nothing were those who had managed to commit

suicide before questioning.

As he trudged steadily through the dark toward the cave

he blessed his luck, wisdom or intuition in making a phone

call. Then his thoughts became occupied with Gurd and

Skriva. H they had been caught, as seemed likely, it meant

he'd been deprived of valuable allies and once again was

strictly on his own. He'd have to find some way of replacing

them and that wouldn't be easy.

But if, like himself, they had escaped the trap, how was he

going to find them? The crummy cafe had been their only

recognised point of contact. He didn't know where they lived

and it would be foolhardy to go around asking. They didn't

know his address, either. They'd want to meet him fully as

much as he wanted to meet them. Both sides could waste

weeks or months fumbling at random for each other in a city

as big as Pertane. Somehow the problem had to be solved.

Arriving at the cave as dawn was breaking, he took off his

shoes, sat on the pebble beach and soaked his aching feet in

the stream. Still his mind chewed unceasingly at the question

of how to find Gurd and Skriva, if they were still free.

Eventually the Kaitempi would remove the stakeout from the Cafe

Susun either because they were satisfied that they had exploited

it to the limit, or because their patience had run out, or

because of pressure of other business. It would then be possible

to visit the place and find someone able to give all the

information he needed. But heaven alone knew when that

would be; perhaps as far off as a year next Christmas.

In new and radically changed disguise he could mooch

around the neighbourhood of the cafe until he found one of

its regular customers and used him as a lead to Gurd and

Skriva. It would be a risky' tactic, a highly dangerous one.

Chances were high that, for the time being, the Cafe Susun

was the focal point of Kaitempi activity over the entire district

with plainclothesmen keeping watch for suspicious looking

characters lounging around anywhere within a mile of the

place.

After an hour's meditation he decided that there was one

possibility of regaining contact with the brothers. It depended

not only on them being on the loose but also having their

fair share of brains and imagination. It might work. They

were crude and ruthless but not stupid and a steady flow of

guilders must have greatly stimulated their natural cunning.

He could leave them a message where he'd left one before,

hoping they'd have the sense to think of the same thing

them-selves and go take a look. On the Radine road under Marker

33 den: If they had successfully completed their last job they

had fifty thousand guilders owing to them. That should be

more than enough to sharpen their wits.

The sun came up, spreading its warmth through the trees

and into the cave. It was one of those days that beguiles a

man into lying around and doing nothing. Succumbing to

temptation he gave himself a holiday and postponed further action

until the morrow. It was just as well: constant chasing around,

uneasy sleeps and much nervous tension had combined to

thin him down and tax his resources.

All that day he loafed in or near the cave, enjoying peace

and quietness, freedom from pursuit, cooking himself large

and succulent Earth-meals. No prowlers came sneaking

through the forest, no scout-planes snooped low overhead.

Evidently the enemy was obsessed with the notion that the

quarry sought sanctuary only in heavily populated places; it

just hadn't occurred to them that anyone would take to the

wilds. This was logical enough from their viewpoint, they

having accepted Dirac Angestun Gesept as a large, well-

organised opposition too big and widespread to lurk in a cave.

The wasp had magnified himself to such elephantine proportions

that they weren't going to waste time looking down

rabbit-holes for him.

That night he slept like a child, soundly and solidly, right

around the clock. He spent the next morning in total idleness,

had a bathe in the stream during the heat of noon. Toward

evening he cropped his hair in military fashion, leaving himself

with no more than a stiff bristle covering his skull. Another

injection obliterated the falkin. He retinted himself all over,

making his colour a fresher and slightly deeper purple. Dental

plates filled the gaps where his wisdom teeth had been and

made his face appear wider, heavier, with squarer jaw-line.

A complete change of clothing followed. The shoes he donned

were of military type, the civilian suit was of expensive

cut, the neck-scarf was knotted in space-marine fashion.

To this ensemble he added a platinum watch-fob and a platinum

wrist-bangle holding an ornamental identity-disc.

He now looked like somebody several cuts above the Sirian

average. The new set of documents he pocketed confirmed

this impression. They vouched for the fact that he was Colonel

Krasna Halopti of the Military Intelligence Service and as

such entitled to claim the assistance of all Sirian authorities

anytime, anywhere.

They could execute him out of hand for masquerading as

a high-ranking officer. But what matter? - they'd strangle him

anyway. A man cannot die twice.

Satisfied that he now looked the part one hundred percent

and that he bore little resemblance to any of his previous

appearances, he sat on a container and wrote a brief letter.

`I tried to get in touch with you at the cafe and found the

place full of K-sokos. The money had been buried in readiness

for you at the base of the southernmost left-hand buttress of

the Asako Bridge. If you are free, and if you are able and

willing to take on more work, leave a message here saying

when and where I can find you.'

Leaving it unsigned, he folded it, slipped it into a damp proof

cellophane envelope. Into his pocket he dropped a small,

silent automatic. The gun was of Sirian manufacture and he

had a fake permit to carry it.

This new role was more daring and dangerous than the

others had been, but had its compensations. A check with

official records would expose and damn him in double-quick

time. Against this was the average Sirian's respect for

authority and reluctance to challenge it. Providing he conducted

himself with enough self-assurance and sufficient arrogance

even the Kaitempi might be tempted to accept him at face

value.

Two hours after the fall of darkness he switched Container-22

and set forth through the forest bearing a new case larger

and heavier than before. Yet again he found himself regretting

the distance of his hideout from the nearest road. A twenty

mile march each way was tedious and tiring. But it was a

cheap price to pay for the security of his supplies.

The walk was longer this time because he did not cut

straight through to the road and thumb a lift. To beg a ride

in his new guise would have been sufficiently out of character

to draw unwelcome attention to himself. So he followed the

fringe of the forest to the point where two other roads joined

on. Here, in the early morning, he waited between the trees

until an express bus appeared in the distance. He stepped out

onto the road, caught it and was carried into the centre of

Pertane.

Within half an hour he had acquired a car. This time he

did not bother to rent one; it wasn't worth the trouble for

the short period he needed it. Ambling around until he found

a parked dyno that suited his purpose, he got in and drove

away. Nobody ran after him yelling bloody murder. The theft

had gone unobserved.

Making it out to the Radine road, he stopped, waited for

the artery to clear in both directions, buried his letter under

the marker. Then he returned to Pertane and put the car back

where he had found it. He had been away a little over an hour

and it was probable that the owner had not missed his

machine, would never know that it had been borrowed.

Next, he went to the crowded main post office, took half

a dozen small but heavy parcels from his case, addressed them

and mailed them. Each held an airtight can containing a cheap

clock-movement and a piece of paper, nothing else. The clock-

movement emitted a sinister tick just loud enough to be heard

if a suspicious-minded person listened closely. The paper bore

a message short and to the point.

This package could have killed you.

Two different packages brought together at the right time

and place could kill a hundred thousand.

End this war before we end you!

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Paper threats, that was all. But effective enough to eat still

further into the enemy's war effort. They'd alarm the

recipients and give their forces something more to worry about.

Doubtless the military would provide a personal bodyguard

for every big wheel on Jaimec and that alone would pin down

a regiment.

Mail would be examined and all suspicious parcels would

be taken apart in a blast-proof room. There'd be a city-wide

search with radiation-detectors for the component parts of a

fission-bomb. Civil defence would be alerted in readiness to

cope with a mammoth explosion that might or might not take

place. Anyone on the streets who walked with a secretive air

and wore a slightly mad expression. would be arrested and

hauled in for questioning.

Yes, after three murders with the promise of more to come

authority dare not dismiss D.A.G.'s threats as the idle talk

of some crackpot on the loose. For safety's sake they'd have

to assume that fake bombs might soon be followed by real

ones and act accordingly.

As he strolled along the road he amused himself by picturing

the scene when the receiver of a parcel rushed to dump it

in a bucket of water while someone else frantically phoned

for the bomb squad. He was so engrossed with these thoughts

that it was some time before he became conscious of a shrill

whistling sound rising and falling over Pertane. He stopped,

looked around, gazed at the sky, saw nothing out of the

ordinary. Quite a lot of people seemed to have disappeared from

the street but a few, like himself, were standing and staring

around bewilderedly.

Chapter VIII

THE NEXT MOMENT a cop shoved him in the shoulder. "Get

down, you fool"

"Down?" Mowry eyed him without understanding. "Down

where? What's the matter?"

"Into the cellars," shouted the cop, making waving motions.

"Don't you recognise a raid-alarm when you hear it?" Without

waiting for a reply he ran forward, bawling at other people,

"Get down! Get down!"

Turning, Mowry scrambled after the rest down a long,

steep flight of steps and into the basement of a business block.

He was surprised to find the place already crowded. Several

hundred people had taken refuge without having to be told.

They were standing around, or sitting on wooden benches or

leaning against the wall. Upending his case, Mowry sat on it.

Nearby an irate oldster looked him over with rheumy gaze

and said, "A raid-alarm. What d'you think of that?"

"Nothing," answered Mowry. "What's the use of thinking?

There's nothing we can do about it"

"But the Spakum fleets have been destroyed," shrilled the

oldster, making Mowry the focal point of an address to everyone.

"They've said so time and again, on the radio and in the

papers. The Spakum fleets have been wiped out. So what has

set off an alarm, hi? What can raid us, hi? Tell me that!"

"Maybe it's just a practice alarm," Mowry soothed.

"Practice?" He spluttered with senile fury. "Why do we need

practice and who says so? If the Spakum forces are beaten

we've no need to hide. There's nothing to hide from. We don't

want any practice."

"Don't pick on me." advised Mowry, bored with the other's

whines. "I didn't sound the alarm."

"Some stinking idiot sounded it," persisted the oldster. "Some

lying soko who wants us to believe the war is as good as over

when it isn't. How do we know how much truth there is in

what they're telling us?" He spat on the floor, doing it viciously.

"A great victory in the Centauri sector-then the raid-

alarm is sounded. They must think we're a lot of-"

A squat, heavily built character stepped close to him and

snapped, "Shut up!"

The oldster was too absorbed in his woes to cower, too

pigheaded to recognise the voice of authority. "I won't shut

up. I was walking home when somebody pushed me down

here just because a whistle blows and -"

The squat man opened his jacket, displayed a badge and

repeated in harsher tones, "I said shut up!"

"Who d'you think you are? At my time of life I'm not going

to be --"

With a swift movement the squat man whipped out a rubber

truncheon, larruped the oldster over the head with all the

force he could muster. The victim went down like a shot steer.

A voice at the back of the crowd shouted, "Shame!" Several

others murmured, fidgeted but did nothing.

Grinning, the squat man showed what he thought of this

disapproval by kicking the oldster in the face and again in

the belly. Glancing up, he met Mowry's gaze and promptly

challenged, "Well?"

Mowry said evenly, "Are you of the Kaitempi?"

"Yar. What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I was only curious."

"Then don't be. Keep your dirty nose out of this."

The crowd muttered and fidgeted again. Two cops came

down from the street, sat on the bottom step and mopped

their foreheads. They looked nervous and jumpy. The

Kaitempi agent joined them, took a gun out of his pocket and

nursed it in his lap. Mowry smiled at him enigmatically. The

oldster still lay unconscious on the floor and breathed with

bubbling sounds.

Now the silence of the city crept into the cellar. The crowd

became peculiarly tense as everyone listened. After half an

hour there sounded in the distance a series of hisses that

started on a loud, strong note and swiftly faded into the sky.

Tenseness immediately increased with the knowledge that

guided missiles weren't being expended for the fun of it.

Somewhere overhead and within theoretical range must be a

Spakum ship, perhaps bearing a lethal load that might drop

at any moment.

Another volley of hisses. The silence returned. The cops

and the agent got to their feet, edged farther into the basement

and turned to watch the steps. Individual breathing could be

heard, some respirating spasmodically as if finding difficulty

in using their lungs. All faces betrayed an inward strain and

there was an acrid smell of sweat. Mowry's only thought was

that to be disintegrated in a bomb-blast from his own side

was a hell of a way to die.

Ten minutes later the floor quivered. The walls vibrated.

The entire building shook. From the street came the brittle

crash of breaking glass as windows fell out. Still theis was

no other sound, no roar of a great explosion, no dull rumbling

of propulsors in the stratosphere. The quietness was eerie in

the extreme.

It was three hours before the same whistling on a lower

note proclaimed the all-clear. The crowd hurried out, vastly

relieved. They stepped over the oldster, left him lying there.

The two cops headed together up the street while the Kaitempi

agent strode the opposite way. Mowry caught up with the

agent, spoke pleasantly.

"Shock damage only. They must have dropped it a good

distance away."

The other grunted,

"I wanted to speak to you but couldn't very well do so in

front of all those people."

"Yar? Why not?"

For answer, Mowry produced his identity-card and his

warrant, showed them to the agent.

"Colonel Halopti, Military Intelligence: Returning the card,

the agent lost some of his belligerence, made an effort to be

polite. "What did you want to say-something about that

garrulous old fool?"

"No. He deserved all he got. You're to be commended for

the way you handled him." He noted the other's look of

gratification, added, "An ancient gab like him could have made

the whole crowd hysterical."

"Yar, that's right. The way to control a mob is to cut out

and beat up its spokesmen."

"When the alarm sounded I was on my way to Kaitempi

H.Q. to borrow a dependable agent," explained Mowry. "When

I saw you in action I felt you'd save me the trouble. You're

just the fellow I want: one who's quick on the uptake and

will stand no nonsense: What's your name?"

"Sagramatholou."

"Ah, you're from the K17 system, hi? They all use

compound names there, don't they?"

"Yar. And you're from Diracta. Halopti is a Diractan name

and you've got a Mashambi accent"

Mowry laughed. "Can't hide much from each other, can

we?"

"Nar." He looked Mowry over with open curiosity, asked,

"What d'you want me for?"

"I hope to nab the leader of a D.A.G. cell. It's got to be

done quickly and quietly. If the Kaitempi put fifty on the job

and make a major operation of it they'll scare away the rest

for miles around. One at a time is the best technique. As the

Spakums say, "Softly, softly, catchee monkey."

"Yar, that's the best way," agreed Sagramatholou.

"I'm confident that I could take this character single-handed

without frightening away the others. But while I'm going in,

the front he may beat it out the back. So it needs two of

us." He paused to let it sink in, finished, "I want a reliable

man to grab him if he bolts; you'll get full credit for the

capture."

The other's eyes narrowed and gained an eager light. "I'll

be glad to come along if it's all right with H.Q. I'd better

phone and ask them."

"Please yourself," said Mowry with a studied carelessness

he was far from feeling. "But you know what will happen for

sure?"

"What d'you think?"

"They'll take you off it and give me an officer of equivalent

rank." Mowry made a disparaging gesture. "Although I

shouldn't say it, being a colonel myself, I'd rather have a

tough, experienced man of my own choice."

The other swelled his chest. "You may have something.

There are officers and officers."

"Precisely! Well, are you in this with me or not?"

"Do you accept full responsibility if my superiors gripe

about it?"

"Of course."

"That's good enough for me. When do we start?"

"At once."

"All right," said Sagramatholou, making up his mind. "I'm

on duty another three hours anyway."

"Good! You got a civilian-type dyno?"

"AII our dynos are ordinary looking ones - they have to be."

"Mine bears military insignia,' lied Mowry. `We'd better

use yours."

The other accepted this statement without question. He

was completely hooked by his own eagerness to get credit for

an important capture. Being what they were, the Kaitempi

suffered from their own peculiar form of cupidity; the prospect

of finding another victim for the strangling-post was something

difficult to resist.

Reaching the car-park around the corner, Sagramatholou

took his seat behind the wheel of a big black dyno. Tossing

his case into the back, Mowry got in beside him. The car

snored onto the street.

"Where to?"

"South end, back of the Rida Engine Plant. I'll show you

from there."

Theatrically the agent made a chopping motion with one

hand as he said, "This D.A.G. business is sending us crazy.

High time we put an end to it. How did you get a lead on

them?"

"We picked it up on Diracta. One of them fell into our

hands and talked."

"In great pain?" suggested Sagramatholou, chuckling.

"That's the way to handle them." He turned a corner, let

go another chuckle. "They all blab when the suffering gets too

cruel to endure. After which they die just the same."

"Yar," repeated Mowry with becoming gusto.

"We snatched a dozen from a cafe in the Laksin quarter,"

informed Sagramatholou. "They're talking, too. But they aren't

talking sense-yet. They've admitted every crime in the calendar

except membership of D.A.G. About that organisation they know

nothing, so they say."

"What took you to the cafe?"

"Somebody got his stupid head knocked off. He was a regular

frequenter of the joint. We identified him after a lot of

trouble, traced him back and grabbed a bunch of his ever-

loving friends. About six of them have confessed to the

killing."

"Six?" Mowry frowned.

"Yar. They did it at six different times, in six different

places, for six different reasons. The dirty sokos are lying to

make us ease up. But we'll get the truth out of them yet."

"Sounds like a mere hoodlum squabble to me. Where's the

political angle, if any?"

"I don't know. The higher-ups keep things to themselves.

They say they know for a fact that it was a D.A.G. execution

and therefore whoever did it is a D.A.G. killer."

"Maybe somebody tipped them," offered Mowry.

"Maybe somebody did. And he could be a liar too." He let

go a snort of disgust. "This war is enough without traitors and

liars making things worse. We're being run ragged, see? It

can't go on for ever."

"Any luck with the snap-searches?"

"There was at first. Then the luck petered out because everyone

became wary. We've stopped making them for ten days.

The lull will give the dodgers a sense of false security. When

they're ripe for the taking, we'll take them."

"That's a good idea. One has to use one's wits these days,

hi?"

"Yar."

"Here we are. Turn left and then first right"

The car shot past the rear of the engine plant, entered a

narrow, rutted road, switched into another little better than a

lane. All around was an unsavoury, semi-deserted area full of

old buildings, vacant lots and garbage dumps. They stopped,

got out.

Gazing about him, the Kaitempi agent remarked, "A typical

vermin-run. A couple of years ago we smoked a gang of god-

worshippers out of an old warehouse in this district"

Mowry put on a look of revulsion, "You mean a bunch

infected with Terran religion?"

"Yar, true believers. When the noose tightened their praying

tongues stuck out and went black the same as any sinners."

He laughed at the recollection of it, glanced at the other.

"Where now?"

"Along this alley."

Mowry led the way into the alley which was long, dirty and

had a dead end. They reached the twelve-foot wall that

blocked further progress. There was nobody in sight, nothing

could be heard save a distant hum of traffic and the nearer

squeak of a hanging sign, old and rusty.

Pointing to the door set in the wall, Mowry said, This is

the bolt-hole. It will take me two or three minutes to get round

the front and go in. After that you can expect anything." He

tried the door. It refused to budge. "Locked."

"Better unlock it so he can make a clear run;" suggested

Sagramatholou. "If he finds himself balked he's liable to try

shoot it out with you and I'll be in no position to take part.

These sokos can become dangerous when desperate." He felt

in a pocket, produced a bunch of master-keys. Grinning, he

added, "The easiest way is to let him rush straight into my

arms."

With that, he faced the door, turning his back on Mowry

while he meddled with the lock. Mowry looked back along

the alley. Still nobody in sight.

Taking out his gun, he said in calm, unhurried tones, "You

kicked the old geezer when he was down."

"Sure did," enthused the agent, still trying the lock. "I hope

he dies slowly, the half-witted -" His voice broke off as the

incongruity of Mowry's remark sank into his mind. He turned

round, one hand braced upon the door, and looked straight

into the gun's muzzle. "What's this? What are you -"

The gun gave a phut no louder than that of an air-pistol.

Sagramatholou remained standing, a blue hole in his forehead.

His mouth hung open in an idiotic gape. Then his knees gave

way and he plunged forward face first.

Pocketing the gun, Mowry bent over the body. Working

fast, he searched it, replaced the wallet after a swift look

through it but confiscated the official badge. Hastening out

the alley, he got into the car, drove it downtown to within

a short distance of a used car lot.

Walking the rest of the way he looked over the big assembly

of badly beaten-up dynos. A thin, hard-faced Sirian

immediately sidled up to him, his crafty eyes noting the well-cut

suit, the platinum fob and wrist-band. This, obviously, was

harvest time.

"Lucky you!" announced the Sirian, greasily. "You have

found the best place on Jaimec for a genuine bargain. Every

car a real sacrifice. There's a war on, prices are going to jump

and you just can't go wrong. Now take a look at this beauty

right here. A gift, a positive gift. It's a -"

"I've got eyes," said Mowry.

"Yar, sure. I'm pointing out -"

"I've got a mind of my own," Mowry informed. "And I

wouldn't drive around in any of these relics unless I was in

a hurry to be struck dead."

"But -"

"Like everyone else, I know there's a war on. before long

it's going to be mighty tough getting bits and pieces. I'm

in-terested in something I can strip down for parts." He pointed.

"That one, for instance. How much?"

"She's a good runner," expostulated the salesman, donning a

look of horror. "Purrs along like brand new. Got current

plates -"

"I can see it's got current plates."

"... and is good and solid from front to back. I'm giving

it away, just giving it"

"How much?"

"Nine-ninety," said the other, again eyeing the suit and the

platinum.

"Robbery," said Mowry.

They haggled for half an hour at the end of which Mowry

got it for eight-twenty. He paid and drove it away. It creaked,

groaned and lurched in a manner that showed he'd still been

soaked for at least two hundred, but he wasn't resentful about

that.

On a lot littered with scrap-iron a mile away, with nobody

watching, he parked the car, smashed its windshield and

lamps, removed its wheels and number plates, took all

detach-able parts from the motor and effectively converted the

machine into what any passer-by could see was an abandoned

wreck. He walked off, returned in short time with the dead

agent's car, loaded the loose parts into it.

Half an hour later he slung the wheels and other items into

the river. With them went Sagramatholou's plates. He drove

away bearing the plates taken from the wreck; the exchange

had cost him eight-twenty in counterfeit money and was cheap

at the price. A police patrol or another Kaitempi car could

now follow him for miles without spotting the number for

which undoubtedly they'd be seeking.

Assured of no more snap-searches for the time being he

idled around town until the sky went dark. Dumping the car

in an underground garage, he bought a paper and perused it

during a meal.

According to this news-sheet a lone Terran destroyer -

described as `a cowardly sneak-raider' - had managed to make a

desperate dash through formidable space defences and drop

one bomb upon the great national armaments. complex at

Shugruma. Little damage had been done. The invader had

been blown apart soon afterward.

The story had been written up to give the impression that

a sly dog had got in a harmless bite and been shot for its

pains. He wondered how many readers believed it. Shugruma

was more than three hundred miles away - yet Pertane had

shuddered to the shock-waves of the distant explosion. If that

was anything to go by, the target area must now be represented

by a crater a couple of miles in diameter.

The second page stated that forty-eight members of the

traitorous Sirian Freedom Party had been seized by forces of

law and order and would be dealt with appropriately. No

details offered, no names given, no charges stated.

This was normal among a species with a secret judicial

system, on worlds where any suspect could be snatched from

the street and never seen again. There were no judges and

juries holding public trials anywhere within the Sirian Empire.

If lucky, the arrested one eventually was released, physically

enfeebled, without apology or compensation. If out of luck,

his next of kin did not so much as receive a jar containing

his ashes.

The forty-eight were doomed, whoever they were or whoever

they were thought to be. Alternatively, the whole yarn

could be an officially concocted lie. The powers-that-be were

quite capable of venting their fury on half a dozen common

crooks and, for public consumption, defining them as D.A.G.

members while multiplying their number by eight. Authority

is maintained and wars are fought by propaganda, a cover word

for cynical perversion of the facts.

One of the back pages devoted a few lines to the modest

statement that Sirian forces had now been withdrawn from

the planet Gooma "so that they can be deployed more effectively

in the actual area of combat." This implied that Gooma

was far outside the area of combat, a transparent piece of

nonsense to any reader capable of independent thought. But

ninety percent of the readership could not endure the awful

strain of thinking: they were content to look and listen and

swallow whatever guff got dished out.

Far and away the most significant item was the leader-

writer's contribution. This was a pompous sermon based on

the thesis that total war should end only in total victory which

could and must be gained only by total effort. There was no

room for political division within the Sirian ranks. Everyone

without exception must be solidly behind the leadership in

its determination to fight the war to a successful conclusion.

Doubters and waverers, dodgers and complainers, the lazy

and the shiftless were as much traitors to the cause as any

spy or saboteur. They should be dealt with swiftly, once and

for all. They should be slaughtered without mercy.

Clearly it was a yelp of agony although Dirac Angestun

Gesept was not mentioned in plain words. Since in time of

war all such lectures were officially inspired, it was reasonable

to assume that the brasshats were experiencing acute pains

in the buttocks. In effect they were shouting out loud that a

wasp could sting. Perhaps some of them had received little

parcels that ticked and did not approve of this switch from

the general to the personal.

Now that night had fallen Mowry lugged his case to his

room. He made the approach warily. Any hideout could

become a trap at any time, without warning. Apart from the

possibility of the police or Kaitempi lying in wait after having

got a line on him, there was also the chance of encountering

a landlord who'd become curious about the use of the room

by another and more prosperous Iooking character. True, the

landlord was a tightmouth typical of slumdom but even he

would curry favour with the Kaitempi if he thought it necessary

to save his own neck. The landlord was not to be trusted.

On a hostile world nobody was to be trusted.

The building wasn't watched, the room was not staked. He

managed to sneak in unobserved. Everything proved to be

exactly as he had left it, showing that nobody yet had found

reason to come nosing around. Thankfully he sprawled on the

bed and gave his feet a rest while he considered the situation.

It was evident that as far as possible he would have to enter

and leave the room only during hours of darkness. The alternative

was to seek another hideout, preferably in a better-class

area more in keeping with his present character. He didn't

want to start another time-wasting search for a rat-hole unless

he was driven to it.

The following day he regretted the destruction of his first

case and all its contents in Radine. This loss piled up the

work, made it tedious and boring. But it had to be done. As

a result he spent all morning in the public library compiling

a list of names and addresses to replace the previous one.

Then with plain paper, envelopes and a small hand-printer

he used another two days preparing a stack of letters. It was

a relief when they were finished and mailed.

Sagramatholou was the fourth.

The list is long.

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Thus he had killed several birds with one stone. He had

avenged the oldster, a motive that gave him a good deal of

satisfaction. He had struck another blow at the Kaitempi.

He'd acquired a car not traceable through renting agencies

or usual sales channels. Finally he had given authority further

proof of D.A.G.'s willingness to kill, maim or otherwise

muscle its way to power.

To boost this situation he mailed at the same time another

six parcels. Outwardly these were identical with the former

ones. They emitted the same subdued tick. There the resemblance

ended. At periods varying between six and twenty hours

after sending, or at any moment that someone tried pry

them open, they were due to go off with a bang sufficiently

forceful to plaster a body against the wall.

On the fourth day after his return to the roam he slipped

out unseen, collected the car and visited Marker 33-den on

the Radine road. Several patrol cars passed him on the way

but none betrayed the slightest interest in him. Reaching the

marker, he dug at its base, found his own cellophane envelope

now containing a small card. All it said was: Asako 19-1713.

The trick had come off.

Forthwith he drove back to the first booth he could find,

switched off its scanner and called the number. A strange voice

answered while the visiscreen remained blank. Evidently there

was similar caution at the other end.

"19-1713," it said.

"Gurd or Skriva there?" asked Mowry.

"Wait," ordered the voice.

"One moment and no more," retorted Mowry. "After that

goodbye!"

The only answer was a grunt. Mowry hung on, watching

the road, ready to drop the phone and beat it immediately

his intuition told him to get away fast. The college had told

him times without number never to disregard the strange, in-

definable smell of an ambush. There must be something in

it seeing he was still alive and fancy free.

He was nearing the point of taking alarm when Skriva's

voice came through and growled, "Who's that?"

"Your benefactor."

"Oh, you. I'm not getting your pic."

"I'm not getting yours either. What's the matter - are you

windy?"

"This is no place to talk," said Skriva. "We'd better meet.

Where are you?"

A swift series of thoughts flashed through Mowry's mind.

Where are you? Was Skriva allowing himself to be used as

bait? If he'd been caught and given a preliminary taste of

rough treatment it was just the sort of crafty trick the

Kaitempi would play. They'd get Skriva's full co-operation

after showing him the consequences of refusal.

On the other hand it wasn't likely in such circumstances

that Skriva would bother asking for his location. The Kaitempi

would know it already, having traced the call. Moreover they'd

want the conversation prolonging as much as possible to hold

Mowry there. Skriva was trying to cut it short. Yes, the betting

was against a trap.

"You struck dumb?" shouted Skriva, impatient and suspicious.

That settled the matter from Mowry's viewpoint and he

replied, "I was thinking. How about meeting me where you

left your phone number?"

"That's as good as anywhere."

"By yourself," warned Mowry. "Nobody else with you excepting

Gurd. Nobody following and nobody hanging around."

"Who's windy now?" said Skriva. "I'm coming right away."

Driving back to the marker, Mowry parked his car on the

verge and waited. Twenty minutes afterward Skriva's dyno

rolled up, parked behind. Skriva got out, approached him,

halted in mid-step, scowled uncertainly, slid a hand into a

pocket and looked hurriedly up and down the road. There

were no other cars in sight.

Mowry grinned at him. "What's eating you? Got a guilty

conscience or something?"

Coming closer, Skriva eyed him with slight incredulity, then

commented, "So it is you. What have you been doing to yourself?"

Without waiting for a reply he walked around the bonnet,

climbed in, took the other seat. "You don't look the same.

It was hard to recognise you."

"That's the idea. A change for the better wouldn't do you

any harm, either. Make it harder for the cops to get you."

"Maybe." Skriva was silent for a moment, then, "They got

Gurd."

Mowry sat up. "How? When was this?"

"The damn fool came down from a roof straight into the

arms of two of them. Not satisfied with that he gave them

some lip and went for his gun."

"If he'd behaved like he'd every right to be up there he

could have talked his way out of it."

"Gurd couldn't talk his way out of an old sack," opined

Skriva. "He's not made like that. I spend a lot of time keeping

him out of trouble."

"How come you weren't collared too?"

"I was on another roof halfway down the street. They didn't

see me. It was all over before I could get down to help Gurd."

"What happened to him?"

"What you'd expect. The cops were already beating him

over the head before he got his hand in his pocket. Last I

saw of him was when they flung him into the wagon."

"Tough luck!” sympathised Mowry. He meditated a while,

asked, `And what happened at the Cafe Susun?"

"Don't know exactly. Gurd and I weren't there at the time

and a fellow tipped us to stay clear. All I know is that the

Kaitempi rushed the place twenty strong, grabbed everyone

in sight and staked it. I've not shown my face near there since.

Some soko must have talked too much."

"Butin Arhava, for instance?"

"How could he?" scoffed Skriva. "Gurd took his head off

before he'd a chance to blab."

"Maybe he talked after Gurd had tended to him,' Mowry

suggested. "Sort of lost his head about it."

Skriva narrowed his eyes: "What d'you mean?"

"Oh, forget it. Did you collect that roll from the bridge?"

"Yar."

"Want any more - or are you now too rich to care?"

Studying him calculatingly, Skriva asked, "How much

money have you got altogether?"

"Enough to pay for all the jobs I want done."

"That tells me nothing."

"It isn't intended to," Mowry assured. "What's on your

mind?"

"I like money."

"That fact is more than apparent," said Mowry.

"I'm really fond of it," Skriva went on, as if speaking in

parables.

"Who isn't?"

"Yar, who isn't? Gurd loves it too. Most everybody does."

Skriva stopped, added, "In fact the chump who doesn't love

it is either daft or dead."

"If you're leading up to something, say so," Mowry urged.

"Cut out the song and dance act. We've not got all day."

"I know a fellow who loves money."

"So what?"

"He's a jailer," said Skriva pointedly.

Twisting sidewise in his seat, Mowry eyed him carefully.

"Let's get down to brass tacks. What's he willing to do and

how much does he want?"

"He says Gurd's in a cell along with a couple of old pals

of ours. So far none of them have been put through the mill

though they'll be worked over sooner or later. Fellows in clink

usually are given plenty of time to think over what's coming

to them and let their imaginations operate. It helps them

break down quicker."

"That's the usual technique," Mowry agreed. "Let them

become nervous wrecks before making them physical wrecks."

"Yar, the stinking sokos." Skriva spat out the window before

he continued, "Whenever a prisoner's number comes up the

Kaitempi call at the jail, present an official demand for him

and take him to their H.Q. for treatment. Sometimes they

bring him back several days later, by which time he's a cripple.

Sometimes they don't return him at all. In the latter event

they file a death warrant to keep the prison records straight."

"Go on."

"This fellow who loves money will give me the number and

location of Gurd's cell. Also the timing of Kaitempi visits

and full details of the routine they follow. Finally he'll

pro-vide a copy of the official form used for demanding release."

He let that sink in, finished, "He wants a hundred thousand."

Mowry pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "You think we

should try get Gurd out?"

"Yar."

"Didn't know you were so fond of him."

"He could stay there and rot for all I care," said Skriva.

"He's paying the price of his own stupidity. Why should I

worry about him, hi?"

"All right, let him stay and rot. We'll save a hundred

thousand that way."

"Yar," Skriva approved. "But -"

"But what?"

"I could use the dope and the two with him. So could you

if you've more work in mind. Furthermore, if Gurd's kept in

he'll talk. They'll make him talk - and he knows too much.

But if he escapes they won't be able to force him to say

anything. And what's a hundred thousand to you?"

"Too much to throw away on a glib story." Mowry told him

bluntly. "Prize fool I'd be to hand you a huge, wad just because

you say Gurd's in the clink."

Skriva's face darkened with anger. "You don't believe me, hi?"

"I've got to be shown," said Mowry, undisturbed.

"Maybe you'd like a specially conducted tour through the

jail and have Gurd pointed out to you?"

"The sarcasm is wasted. You seem to forget that while Gurd

may be able to put the finger on you for fifty or more major

crimes, he can do nothing whatsoever about me. He can talk

himself black in the face without saying anything worth a hoot

so far as I am concerned. No, when I spend money it'll be

my money and it'll be spent for my reasons, not yours."

"So you won't splurge a guilder on Gurd?" demanded Skriva,

still thunderous.

"I don't say that. What I do say is that I won't throw money

away for nothing. But I'm willing to pay for full value

received."

"Meaning what?"

"Tell this greedy screw that we'll give him twenty thousand

for a genuine Kaitempi requisition-form - after he has handed

it over. Also that we'll pay him a further eighty thousand

after Gurd and his two companions have got away."

A mixture of expressions crossed Skriva's unlovely features,

surprise, gratification, doubt and puzzlement. "What if he

refuses to play on these terms?"

"He stays poor."

"Well, what if he agrees but refuses to believe I can find the

money? How am I going to convince him?"

"Don't bother to try," Mowry advised. "He has to speculate

in order to accumulate, same as everyone else. If he won't do

it let him remain content with grinding poverty."

"Maybe he'd rather stay poor than take the risk."

"He won't. He's running no real risk and he knows it.

There's only one chance he could take and he'll avoid it like

the plague."

"Such as?"

"Suppose we arrive to make the rescue and are jumped on

before we can open our mouths or show the requisition-form,

what will it prove? It'll show that this fellow fooled you for

the sake of the reward. The Kaitempi will pay him five

thousand apiece for laying the trap and tipping them off. He'll

make an easy and legal ten thousand on top of the twenty

thousand we've already paid him. Correct?"

"Yar," said Skriva, uneasily.

"`But he'll lose the eighty thousand yet to come. The difference

is plenty big enough to ensure his absolute loyalty up

to the moment he gets it in his hot little hands."

"Yar," repeated Skriva, brightening considerably.

"After that - zunk!" said Mowry. "Immediately he's got his

claws on the lot we'd better run like hell."

"Hell?" Skriva stared at him. "That's a Spakum curse-word."

Mowry sweated a bit as he replied offhandedly, "Sure it is.

One picks up all sorts of bad language in wartime, especially

on Diracta."

"Ah, yes, on Diracta." echoed Skriva, mollified. He got out

the car. "I'll go see this jailer. We'll have to move fast. Phone

me this time tomorrow, hi?"

"All right."

Mowry remained where he was until the other's dyno had

gone from sight. Then he jockeyed his own off the verge and

drove into Pertane.

Chapter IX

THE NEXT DAY'S work was the easiest to date though not

devoid of danger. All he had to do was gossip to anyone

willing to listen. This was in accordance with the step-by-step

technique taught him by the college.

`First of all you must establish the existence of an internal

opposition. Doesn't matter whether it is real or imaginary so

long as the enemy becomes convinced of its actuality.'

He had done that much.

`Secondly, you must create fear of that opposition and

provoke the enemy into striking back at it as best he can.`

He'd done that too.

`Thirdly, you must answer the enemy's blows with enough

defiance to force him into the open, to bring his reaction to

public attention and to create the general impression that the

opposition has confidence in its own power.`

That also had been achieved.

`The fourth move is ours and not yours. We'll take enough

military action to make hay of the enemy's claims of

invincibility. After that the morale of the public should be

shaky.`

One bomb on Shugruma had done the shaking.

`You then take the fifth step by sowing rumours. Listeners

will be ripe to absorb them and whisper them around - and

the stories will lose nothing in the telling. A good rumour well

planted and thoroughly disseminated can spread alarm and

despondency over a wide area. But be careful in your choice

of victims. If you pick on a fanatical patriot it may be the

end of you!`

In any city in any part of the cosmos the public park is a

natural haunt of idlers and gossips. That is where Mowry went

in the morning. The benches were occupied almost entirely

by elderly people. Young folk tended to keep clear of such

places lest inquisitive cops ask why they were not at work.

Selecting a seat next to a gloomy looking oldster with a

perpetual sniff, Mowry contemplated a bed of tattered flowers

until the other turned. toward him and said conversationally,

"Two more gardeners have gone."

"So? Gone where?"

"Into the armed forces. If they draft the rest of them I don't

know what will happen to this park. It needs someone to look

after it."

"There's a lot of work involved," agreed Mowry. "But I

sup-pose the war comes first"

"Yar. Always the war comes first" Sniffy said it with

cautious disapproval. "It should have been over by now. But

it drags on and drags on. Sometimes I wonder when it will

end."

"That's the big question," responded Mowry, making himself

a fellow spirit.

"Things can't be going as well as they're said to be,"

continued Sniffy, morbidly. "Else the war would be over. It

wouldn't drag on the way it does."

"Personally, I think things are darned bad." Mowry hesitated,

went on confidingly, "In fact I know they are."

"You do? Why?"

"Maybe I oughtn't tell you-but it's bound to come out

sooner or later."

"What is?" insisted Sniffy, consumed with curiosity.

"The terrible state of affairs at Shugruma. My brother came

home this morning and told me."

"Go on-what did he say?"

"He tried to go there for business reasons. but couldn't get

to the place. A ring of troops turned him back forty den from

the town. Nobody except the military, or salvage and medical

services, is being allowed to enter the area."

"That so?" said Sniffy.

"My brother says he met a fellow who'd escaped the disaster

with nothing but the clothes he was wearing. This fellow told

him that Shugruma was practically wiped off the map. Not

one stone left upon another. Three hundred thousand dead.

The stench of bodies would turn your stomach. He said the

scene is so awful that the news-sheets daren't describe it, in

fact they refuse to mention it."

Staring straight ahead, Sniffy said nothing but looked

appalled.

Mowry added a few more lurid touches, brooded with him

for a short time, took his departure. All that he'd said would

be repeated, he could be sure of that. Bad news travels fast.

A little later and half a mile away he had another on the hook,

a beady-eyed, mean-faced character only too willing to hear

the worst.

"Even the papers dare not talk about it," Mowry ended.

Beady-eyes swallowed hard. "If a Spakum ship can dive in

and drop a big one so can a dozen others."

"Yar, that's right"

"In fact they could have dropped more than one while they

were at it. Why didn't they?"

"Maybe they were making a test-run. Now they know how

easy it is they'll come along with a real load. If that happens

there won't be much left of Pertane." He pulled his right ear

and made a tzzk! sound between his teeth, that being the

Sirian equivalent of showing thumbs down.

"Somebody ought to do something about it," declared Beady.

unnerved.

"I'm going to do something myself," informed Mowry. "I'm

going to dig me a deep hole way out in the fields."

He left the other half-paralysed with fright, took a short

walk, picked on a cadaverous individual who looked like a

mortician on vacation.

"Close friend of mine - he's a fieet leader in the space-navy

- told me confidentially that a Spakum onslaught has made

Gooma completely uninhabitable. He thinks the only reason

why they've not given Jaimec the same treatment is because

they're planning to grab the place and naturally don't want

to rob themselves of the fruits of victory."

"Do you believe all that?" demanded the Embalmer.

"One doesn't know what to believe when the government

tells you one thing and grim experience tells you another. It's

only his personal opinion anyway. But he's in the space-navy

and knows a few things that we don't."

"It has been stated authoritatively that the Spakum fleets

have been destroyed."

"Yar, they were still saying so when that bomb fell on

Shugruma," Mowry reminded.

"True, true - I felt it land. In my own house two windows

collapsed and a bottle of zith jumped off the table."

By mid-afternoon thirty people had been fed the tale of the

Shugruma and Gooma disasters, plus allegedly first-hand

warnings of bacteriological warfare and worse horrors to

come. They could no more keep it to themselves than a man

can keep a tornado to himself. By early evening a thousand

would have the depressing news. At midnight ten thousand

would be passing it around. In the morning a hundred thousand -

and so on until the whole city was discussing it.

At the arranged time he called Skriva. "What luck?"

"I've got the form. Have you got the money?"

"Yar."

"It's to be paid before tomorrow. Shall we meet same place

as last?"

"No." said Mowry. "It's not wise to create a habit. Let's make

it someplace else."

"Where?"

"There's a certain bridge where you collected once before.

How about the fifth marker past it going south?"

"That's as good as anywhere. Can you go there at once!"

"I've got to pick up my car. It'll take a little time. You be

there at the seven-time hour."

He reached the marker on time, found Skriva already waiting.

Handing over the money, he took the requisition-form

and examined it carefully. One good look told him that the

thing was well-nigh impossible for him to copy. It was an

ornate document as lavishly engraved as a banknote of high

denomination. They could cope with it on Terra but it was

beyond his ability to duplicate even with the help of various

instruments of forgery lying in the cave.

The form was a used one dated three weeks ago and

obviously had been purloined from the jail's filing system. It

called for the release to the Kaitempi of one prisoner named

Mabin Garud but had enough blank spaces for ten names.

The date, the prisoner's name and number had been typed.

The authorizing signature was in ink.

"Now we've got it," prompted Skriva, "what are we going

to do with it?"

"We can't imitate it," Mowry informed. "The job is too tough

and will take too long."

"You mean it's no use to us?" He registered angry

disappointment.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Well, what do you say? Am I to give this stinker his twenty

thousand or do I cram the form down his gullet?"

"You can pay him." Mowry studied the form again. "I think

that if I work on it tonight I can erase the date, name and

number. The signature can be left intact."

"That's risky. It's easy to spot erasures."

"Not the way I do them. I know how to gloss the surface

afterward. The really difficult task will be that of restoring

the broken lines of engraving." He pondered a moment, went

on, "But that may not be necessary. There's a good chance

the new typing will fill in the blanks. It's hardly likely that

they'll put the form under a microscope."

"If they were that suspicious they'd grab us first," 5kriva

pointed out.

"I need a typewriter. I'll have to buy one in the morning."

"I can get you a typewriter for tonight," offered Skriva.

"You can? How soon?"

"By the eight-time hour."

"Is it in good condition?"

"Yar, it's practically new."

Mowry eyed him and said, "I suppose it's no business of

mine but I can't help wondering what use a typewriter is to

you."

"I can sell it. I sell all sorts of things."

"Things you just happened to find lying in your hands?"

"That's right," agreed Skriva, unabashed.

"Oh well, who am I to quibble? You get it. Meet me here

at eight."

Skriva pushed off. When he'd gone from sight Mowry

followed into the city. He had a feed, drove back to the

marker. Soon afterward Skriva reappeared, gave him the

type-writer.

Mowry said, "I want Gurd's full name and those of his two

companions. Somehow or other you'll have to discover their

prison numbers too. Can you do that?"

"I've got them already." Taking a slip of paper from his

pocket, Skriva read them out while the other made a note of

them.

"Did you also learn at what times the Kaitempi make their

calls to collect?"

"Yar. Always between the three and four-time hours. Never

earlier, rarely later."

"Can you find out about noon tomorrow whether Gurd and

the others are still in the jail? We've got to know that - we'll

get ourselves in a fix if we arrive and demand prisoners who

were taken away this afternoon."

"I can check on it tomorrow," Skriva assured. Then his face

tautened. "Are you planning to get them away tomorrow?"

"We've got to do it sometime or not at all. The longer we

leave it the bigger the risk of the Kaitempi beating us to the

draw. What's wrong with tomorrow, hi?"

"Nothing except that I wasn't counting on it being so soon."

"Why?"

"I thought it'd take longer to work things. out."

"There's little to work out," declared Mowry. "We've swiped

a requisition-form. We alter it and use it to demand release

of three prisoners. Either we get away with it or we don't.

If we do, well and good. If we don't, we shoot first and run

fast."

"You make it sound too easy," Skriva objected. "All we've

got is this form. It isn't enough -"

"It won't be enough, I can tell you that now. Chances are

ten to one they'll expect familiar faces and be surprised by

strange ones. We'll have to compensate for that somehow."

"How?"

"Don't worry, we'll cope. Can you dig up a couple more

helpers? All they need do is sit in the cars, keep their traps

shut and look tough. I'll pay them five thousand apiece just

for that"

"Five thousand each? I could recruit a regiment for that

money. Yar, I can find two. But I don't know how good they'd

be in a fight."

"Doesn't matter so long as they can look like plug-uglies.

By that I don't mean the Cafe Susun kind of roughneck, see?

They've got to resemble Kaitempi agents." He gave the other

an imperative nudge. "The same applies to you. When it's time

to start the job I want to see all three of you clean and tidy,

with well-pressed suits and neatly knotted neck-scarves. I want

to see you looking as if about to attend a wedding. If you let

me down in that respect the deal is off so far as I'm concerned.

You can count me out and go pull the stunt on your own. I

don't intend to try kid some hard-faced, gimlet-eyed warden

with the aid of three scruffy looking bums."

"Maybe you'd like us decked out in fashionable jewellery,"

suggested Skriva sarcastically.

"A diamond on the hand is better than a smear of dirt,"

Mowry retorted. "I'd rather you overdid the dolling-up than

mooched along like hoboes. You'd get away with a splurge

because some of these agents are flashy types." He waited for

comment but the other said nothing, so he continued, "What's

more, these two helpers had better be characters you can trust

not to talk afterward - else they may take my five thousand

and then get another five thousand from the Kaitempi for

betraying you."

Skriva was on firm ground here. He gave an ugly grin and

promised, "One thing I can guarantee is that neither of them

will say a word."

This assurance and the way it was made bore a sinister

meaning but Mowry let it pass and said, "Lastly, we'll need

a couple of dynos. We can't use our own unless we change

the plates. Any ideas on that?"

"Pinching a pair of dynos is as easy as taking a mug of zith.

The trouble is keeping them for any length of time. The longer

we use them the bigger the chance of being picked up by some

lousy patrol with nothing better to do."

"We'll have to cut the use of them to the minimum." Mowry

told him. "Take them as late as you can. We'll park our own

cars on that lot the other side of the Asako Bridge. When we

leave the jail we'll beat it straight there and switch over to

them."

"Yar, that is best," Skriva agreed.

"All right. I'll be waiting outside the east gate of the

municipal park at the two-time hour tomorrow. You come along

with two cars and two helpers and pick me up."

At that point Skriva became strangely restless and showed

suspicion. He fidgeted around, opened his mouth, shut it.

Watching him curiously, Mowry invited, "Well, what's the

matter? You want to call the whole thing off?"

Skriva mustered his thoughts and burst out with, "Look,

Gurd means nothing to you. The others mean even less. But

you're paying good money and taking a big risk to get them

out of clink. It doesn't make sense."

"A lot of things don't make sense. This war doesn't make

sense - but we're in it up to the neck."

"Curses on the war. That is nothing to do with the matter."

"It has everything to do with the matter," Mowry contradicted.

"I don't like it. A lot of people don't like it. If we kick

the government in the rumps often enough and hard enough,

they won't like it either."

"Oh, so that's what you're up to?" Skriva stared at him in

frank surprise, thoughts of purely political reasons never

having entered his mind. "You're chivvying the authorities?"

"Any objections?"

"I couldn't care less," informed Skriva, and added virtuously,

"Politics is a dirty game. Anyone who plays around in it is

crazy. All it gets him in the end is a free burial."

"It'll be my burial, not yours."

"Yar, that's why I don't care." Obviously relieved at having

got to the bottom of the other's motives; Skriva finished, "Meet

you at the park tomorrow."

"On time. If you're late I won't be there."

As before, he waited until the other had gone from sight

before driving to town. It was a good thing, he thought, that

Skriva had a criminal mentality. The fellow just wasn't interested

in politics, ethics, patriotism or anything similar except

insofar as it provided opportunity to snatch easy money. It

was highly probable that he viewed his recent activities as

profitably illegal but not as treacherous. It simply wouldn't

occur to him that there are criminals and there are traitors.

Any one of Skriva's bunch would surrender his own mother

to the Kaitempi, not as a duty to the nation but solely for five

thousand guilders. Similarly, they'd hand Mowry over and

pocket the cash with a hearty laugh. All that prevented them

from selling him body and soul was the fact they'd freely

admitted, namely, that one does not flood one's goldmine.

Providing the cars and helpers could be obtained Skriva

would be there on time tomorrow. He felt sure of that.

Exactly at the two-time hour a big, black dyno paused at

the east gate, picked up Mowry and whined onward. Another

dyno, older and slightly battered, followed a short distance

behind.

Sitting four-square at the wheel of the first car, Skriva

looked neater and more respectable than he had done for

years. He exuded a faint smell of scented lotion and seemed

self conscious about it. With his gaze fixed firmly ahead, he

jerked a manicured thumb over his shoulder to indicate a

similarly washed and scented character lounging beetle-

browed in the back seat.

"Meet Lithar. He's the sharpest wert on Jaimec."

Mowry twisted his head round and gave a polite nod. Lithar

rewarded him with a blank stare. Returning attention to the

windshield, Mowry wondered what on earth a wert might be.

He'd never heard the word before and dared not ask its

meaning. It might be more than an item of local jargon, perhaps

a slang word added to the Sirian language during the years

he had been away. It wouldn't be wise to admit ignorance of

it.

"The fellow in the other car is Brank," informed Skriva.

"He's a red-hot wert too. Lithar's right-hand man. That so,

Lithar?"

The sharpest wert on Jaimec responded with a grunt. To

give him his due, he fitted the part of an agent of the typically

surly type. In that respect Skriva had chosen well.

Threading their way through a series of side-streets they

reached a main road, found themselves held up by a long,

noisy convoy of half-tracked vehicles crammed with troops.

Perforce they stopped and waited. The convoy rolled on and

on like a never ending stream. Skriva began to curse under '

his breath.

"They're gaping around like newcomers," observed Mowry,

watching the passing soldiery. "Must have just arrived from

somewhere."

"Yar, from Diracta," Skriva told him. "Six shiploads landed

this morning. There's a story going the rounds that ten set

out but only six got here."

"That so? It doesn't look so good if they're rushing additional

forces to Jaimec despite heavy losses en route"

"Nothing looks good except a stack of guilders twice my

height," opined Skriva. He scowled at the rumbling half-tracks.

"If they delay us long enough we'll still be here when a couple

of boobs start bawling about their missing cars. The cops will

find us just waiting to be grabbed."

"So what?" said Mowry. "Your conscience is clear, isn't it?"

Skriva answered that with a look of disgust. At last the

procession of military vehicles came to an end. The car jolted

forward as he rushed it impatiently into the road and built

up speed.

"Take it easy" Mowry advised. "We don't want to be nailed

for ignoring some petty regulation."

At a point a short distance from the jail Skriva pulled in

to the kerb and parked. The other dyno stopped close behind.

He turned toward Mowry.

"Before we go any farther let's have a look at that form."

Extracting it from a pocket, Mowry gave it to him. He pored

over it, seemed satisfied, handed it to Lithar.

"Looks all right to me. What d'you think?"

Lithar eyed it impassively, gave it back. "It's good enough

or it isn't. You'll find out pretty soon."

Sensing something sinister in this remark, Skriva became

afflicted with new doubts. He said to Mowry, "The idea is

that a couple of us walk in, present this form and wait for

them to fetch us the prisoners, hi?"

"Correct."

"What if this form isn't enough and they ask for proof of

our identities?"

"I can prove mine."

"Yar? What sort of proof?"

"Who cares so long as it convinces them?" Mowry evaded.

"As for you, fix this inside your jacket and flash it if necessary."

He gave the other Sagramatholou's badge.

Fingering it in open surprise, Skriva demanded; "Where'd

you get this?"

"An agent gave it me. I've influence, see?"

"You expect me to believe that? No Kaitempi soko would

dream of -"

"It so happened that he had expired," Mowry put in. "Dead

agents are very co-operative, as perhaps you've noticed."

"You killed him?"

"Don't be nosey."

"Yar, what's it to us?" interjected Lithar from the back seat.

"You're wasting time. Put a move on and let's get the whole

thing over - or let's throw it up and go back home."

Thus urged Skriva started up and drove forward. Now that

he was rapidly coming to the point of committing himself his

edginess was obvious. He knew that if the rescue failed and

he was caught he'd certainly pay for the attempt with bulging

eyes and protruding tongue. If it succeeded there would follow

a hue and cry that would make all of them cower in their

rat-holes for a month and all he'd have gained would be three

henchmen who, for the time being, would be more nuisance

than asset.

Inwardly he regretted the idea that had made him suggest

this stunt in the first place, namely, that there is safety in

numbers. Perhaps he'd be better off without Gurd and his

fellow jailbirds. Sure, four heads are better than one, four

guns are better than one, but he could do without the official

hullabaloo that the escapees would drag behind them like the

tail of a meteor.

It was too late to retreat. The jail was now in sight, its great

steel doors set in high stone walls. Rolling toward the doors,

the two cars stopped. Mowry got out. Skriva followed suit,

thin-lipped and resigned.

Mowry thumbed the bell-button set in the wall. A small

door which formed a section of the bigger one emitted metallic

clankings and opened. Through it an armed guard eyed them

questioningly.

"Kaitempi call for three prisoners," announced Mowry with

becoming arrogance.

With a brief glance at the waiting cars and their wert occupants

the guard motioned the two inside, closed the door, slid

home its locking-bar. "You're a little early today."

"Yar, we've got a lot to do. We're in a hurry."

"This way."

They tramped after the guard in single file, Skivra last with

a hand in a pocket. Taking them into the administration building,

along a corridor and past a heavily barred sliding gate,

the guard led them into a small room in which a burly, grim-

faced Sirian was sitting behind a desk. Upon the desk stood

a small plaque reading: Commandant Tornik.

"Three prisoners are required for immediate interrogation,"

said Mowry officiously. "Here is the requisition-form,

Commandant. We are pressed for time and would be obliged if

you'd produce them as quickly as possible."

Tornik frowned over the form but did not examine it closely.

Dialling an intercom phone he ordered somebody to bring

the three to his office. Then he lay back in his chair and

regarded the visitors with complete lack of expression.

"You are new to me."

"Of course, Commandant, There is a reason."

"Indeed? What reason?"

"It is believed that these prisoners may be more than ordinary

criminals. We have reason to suspect them of being members of

a revolutionary army, namely, Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Therefore they are to be questioned by Military Intelligence

as well as by the Kaitempi. I am the M.I. representative."

"Is that so?" said Tornik, still blank-faced. "We have never

had the M.I. here before. May I have evidence of your

identity?"

Producing his documents, Mowry handed them over. This

wasn't going so swiftly and smoothly as hoped for. Mentally

he prayed for the prisoners to appear and put a quick end to

the matter. It was obvious that Tornik was the type to fill in

time so long as everyone was kept waiting.

After a brief scrutiny Tornik returned the papers and commented,

"Colonel Halopti, this is somewhat irregular. The

requisition-form is quite in order but I am supposed to hand

prisoners over only to a Kaitempi escort. That is a very strict

rule that cannot be disobeyed even for some other branch of

the security forces."

"The escort is of the Kaitempi," answered Mowry. He threw

an expectant look at Skriva who was standing like one in a

dream. Skriva came awake, opened his jacket and displayed

the badge. Mowry added, "They provided me with three agents

saying their attendance was necessary."

"Yar, that is correct," Pulling open a drawer in his desk,

Tornik produced a receipt-form, filled it in by copying details

from the requisition. When he had finished he studied it

doubt-fully, complained, "I'm afraid I cannot accept your signature,

Colonel. Only a Kaitempi official may sign a receipt for

prisoners."

"I'll sign it," offered Skriva, sweating over the delay.

"But you have a badge and not a plastic card." Tornik

objected. "You are only an agent and not an officer."

Mentally abusing this infernal insistence upon rigmarole,

Mowry interjected, "He is of the Kaitempi and temporarily

under my conmmand. I am an officer although not of the

Kaitempi."

"That is so, but -"

"A receipt for prisoners must be given by the Kaitempi and

by an officer. Therefore the proper conditions will be fulfilled

if both of us sign."

Tornik considered this, decided that it agreed with the letter

of the law. "Yar, the regulations must be observed. You will

both sign."

Just then the door opened, Gurd and his companions

shuffled in with a rattle of wrist-chains. A guard followed,

produced a key, unlocked the manacles and took them away.

Gurd, now worn and haggard, kept his gaze on the floor and

maintained a surly expression. One of the others, a competent

actor, glowered at Tornik, Mowry and Skriva in turn. The

third, who was subject to attacks of delight, beamed around

in happy surprise until Skriva bared his teeth at him. The

smile then vanished. Luckily neither Tornik nor the attendant

guard noticed this by-play.

Mowry signed the receipt with a confident flourish; Skriva

appended his hurried scrawl beneath. The three prisoners

silently stood by, Gurd still moping, the second scowling, the

third wearing the grossly exaggerated expression of one in

mourning for a rich aunt. Number three, Mowry decided, was

definitely a dope who'd ham his way to an early grave.

"Thank you Commandant" Mowry turned toward the door.

"Let's go."

In shocked tones Tornik exclaimed, "What, without wrist-

chains, Colonel? Have you brought no manacles with you?"

Gurd stiffened, number two bunched his fists, number three

made ready to faint. Skriva stuck his hand back in his pocket

and kept full attention on the guard.

Glancing back at the other, Mowry said, "We have steel

anklets fixed to the floors of the cars. That is the M.I. way,

Commandant" He smiled with the air of one who knows. "A

prisoner runs with his feet and not with his hands."

"Yar, that is true," Tornik conceded.

They went out, led by the guard who had brought them

there. The prisoners followed with Skriva and Mowry bringing

up the rear. Through the corridor, past the barred gate, out

the main door and across the yard. Armed guards patrolling

the wall-top sauntered along and eyed them indifferently.

pairs of ears strained for a yell of fury and a rush of feet from

the administration building, five bodies were tensed in readiness

to slug the guide and make a dash for the exit door.

Reaching the wall, the guard grasped the locking-bar in

the small door and just then the bell was rung from outside.

This sudden, unexpected sound jolted their nerves, Skriva's

gun came halfway out of his pocket. Gurd took a step toward

the guard, his, expression vicious. The actor jumped as if

stung. Dopey opened his mouth to emit a yelp of fright,

converted it into a gargle as Mowry rammed a heel on his foot.

Only the guard remained undisturbed. With his back to

the others and therefore unable to see their reactions he lugged

the locking-bar. to one side, turned the handle, opened the

door. Beyond stood four sour-faced characters in plain clothes.

One of them said curtly, "Kaitempi call for one prisoner."

For some reason best known to himself the guard found

nothing extraordinary about two collecting parties turning up

in close succession. He motioned the four inside, held the door

open while the first arrivals went out. The newcomers did not

head straight across the yard toward the administration block.

They took a few steps in that direction, stopped as if by

common consent, stared at Mowry and the others as they passed

into the road. It was the dishevelled look of the prisoners and

the chronic alarm on the face of Dopey that attracted their

attention.

Just as the door shut Mowry, who was last out, heard an

agent rasp at the guard, "Who are those, hi?"

The reply wasn't audible but the question was more than

enough.

"Jump to it!" he urged. "Run!"

They sprinted to the cars, spurred on by expectation of

immediate trouble. A third machine now stood behind their own

two, a big ugly dyno with nobody at the wheel. Lithar and

Brank watched them anxiously, opened the doors in readiness.

Scrambling into the leading dyno, Skriva started its motor

while Gurd went through the back door and practically flung

himself into Lithar's lap. Behind, the other two piled into the

rear of Brank's car.

Mowry gasped at Skriva, "Wait a moment while I see if I

can grab theirs - it'll delay the chase."

So saying he raced to the third car, frantically tugged at its

handle. It refused to budge. Just then the jail's door opened

and somebody roared, "Halt! Halt or we --" Brank promptly

stuck an arm out his open window, flicked four quick shots

toward the door-gap and missed each time. But it was sufficient

to make the shouter dive for cover. Mowry pelted back

to the leading dyno and fell in beside Skriva.

"The cursed thing is locked. Let's get out of here."

The car surged forward, tore down the road, Brank accelerated

after them. Watching through the rear window, Mowry

saw several figures bolt out the jail and waste precious

moments fumbling by their dyno before they got in.

"They're after us," he told Skriva. "And they'll be bawling

their heads off over the radio."

"Yar, but they haven't got us yet."

Chapter X

GURD SAID, "Did nobody think to bring a spare gun?"

"Take mine," responded Lithar, handing it over.

Cuddling it in an eager fist, Gurd grinned at him unpleasantly.

"Don't want to be caught with it on you, hi? Rather it

was me than you, hi? Typical wert, aren't you?"

"Shut up!" snarled Lithar.

"Look who's telling me to shut up," Gurd invited. He was

talking thickly, as if something had gone wrong with his

palate. "He's making a stack of money out of me else he

wouldn't be here at all. He'd be safe at home checking his

stocks of illegal zith while the Kaitempi belted me over the

gullet. And he tells me to shut up." Leaning forward, he tapped

Mowry on the shoulder with the barrel of the gun. "How much

is he making out of this, Mashambigab? How much are you

giving-"

He swayed wildly and clutched for a hold as the car rocked

around a corner, raced down a narrower road, turned sharp

right and then sharp left. Brank's car took the same corner

at the same speed, made the right turn but not the left one.

It rushed straight on and vanished from sight. They turned

again into a one-way alley, cut through to the next road. There

was now no sign of pursuit.

"We've lost Brank," Mowry told Skriva. "Looks like we've

dropped the Kaitempi too."

"It's a safe bet they're chasing Brank. They were closer to

him and they had to follow someone when we split up. Suits

us, doesn't it.?"

Mowry said nothing.

"A lousy wert tells me to shut up," mumbled Gurd.

Swiftly they zig-zagged through a dozen side-streets, still

without encountering a radio alarmed patrol-car. As they

squealed around the last corner near to where their own cars

were parked there sounded a sharp, hard crack in the rear.

Mowry looked back expecting to find a loaded cruizer closing

up on them. There was no car behind. Lithar was lying on

his side apparently asleep. He had a neat hole above his

right ear. A thin trickle of purplish blood was seeping out of

it.

Gurd smirked at Mowry and said, "I've shut him up, for

keeps."

"Now we're carrying a corpse," complained Mowry. "As if

we haven't trouble enough. Where's the sense-"

Skriva intertupted with, "Crack shots, the Kaitempi. Pity

they got Lithar - he was just the sweetest wert on Jaimec."

He braked hard, jumped out, ran across the lot and

clambered into his own dyno. Gurd followed, the gun openly

in his hand and not caring who noticed it. Mowry stopped by

the window as the machine started up.

"What about Brank?"

"What about him?" echoed Skriva.

"If we both beat it he'll get here and find no chance to

switch over."

"What, in a city crammed with dynos?" He let the car edge

forward. "Brank's not here. That's his woe. Let him cope with

his own troubles. We're beating it someplace safe while the

going is good. You follow us."

With that he drove off. Mowry gave him a four hundred

yards lead, droned along behind while the distance between

them slowly increased. Should he let Skriva lead him to a

hideout or not? There seemed little point in following to yet

another rat-hole. The jail job had been done and he'd achieved

his purpose of stirring up a greater ruckus. There were no

werts to pay off; Brank had got himself lost and Lithar was

dead. If he wanted to regain contact with Gurd and Skriva

he could use that telephone number or if, as was likely, it

was no longer valid he could employ their secret post-office

under the marker.

Other considerations also decided him to drop the brothers

for the time being. For one, the Colonel Halopti identity

wouldn't be worth a hoot after they'd wasted a few hours

checking through official channels to establish its falsity. That

would be by nightfall at latest. Once again Pertane was becoming

too hot to hold him. He'd better get out before it was too

late.

For another, he was overdue to beam a report and his conscience

was pricking him about his refusal to do so last time.

If he didn't send one soon he might never be able to transmit

one at all. And Terra was entitled to be kept informed.

By this time the other car had shrunk with distance. Turning

off to the right, he circled back into the city. At once he

noticed a great change of atmosphere. There were far more

police on the streets and now their number had been augmented

by fully armed troops. Patrol-cars swarmed like flies

though none saw fit to stop and question him. On the pavements

were less pedestrians than usual and these hurried along

looking furtive, fearful, grim or bewildered.

Stopping by the kerb outside a business block he lolled in

his seat as if waiting for someone while he watched what was

taking place on the street. The police, some uniformed and

some in plain clothes, were all in pairs. The troops were in

groups of six. Their sole occupation appeared to be that of

staring accusatively at everyone who passed by, holding up

any individual whose looks they didn't like, questioning and

searching him: They also took particular note of cars,

studying the occupants and eyeing the plate-numbers.

In the time that Mowry sat there he and his car were given

the sharp lookover at least twenty times. He endured it with

an air of complete boredom and evidently passed muster

because nobody took it further and questioned him. But that

couldn't go on for ever. Somebody more officious than the

rest would pick on him merely because the others had not

done so. He was tempting fate by staying there.

So he moved off, driving carefully to avoid the attention of

numerous cruizers. Something had broken loose, no doubt of

that. It was written on the moody faces of the public. He

wondered whether the government had been driven to admit

a series of reverses in the space-war. Or perhaps the rumours

he'd spread about Shugruma had come close enough to the

truth to make authority concede the facts. Or maybe a couple

of exceedingly important bureaucrats had tried to open mailed

packages and splattered themselves over the ceiling, thus

creating a tremendous wave of panic among the powers-that-

be. One thing was certain: the recent jailbreak could not be

solely responsible for the present state of affairs though

possibly it may have triggered it into existence.

Slowly he made his way into the crummy quarter where his

room was located, determined to pick up his belongings and

clear out as quickly as possible. The car nosed its way into his

street. As always, a bunch of idlers loafed upon the corner

and stared at him as he went by. There was something not

quite right about them. Their ill-kept clothes and careless

postures gave them the superficial appearance of lazy bums

but they were a little too well-fed, their gaze a little too

haughty.

With hairs itching on the back of his neck and a peculiar

thrill down his spine, he kept going, trying to look as if this

street were only part of a tiresome drive and meant nothing

to him whatsoever. Against a lamp-post leaned two brawny

specimens without jackets or scarves. Nearby four more were

shoring a wall. Six were gossiping around an ancient, decrepit

truck parked right opposite the house in which his room was

at top. Three more were in the doorway of the house. Every

one of these gave him the long, hard look as he rolled by with

an air of total indifference.

The entire street was staked, though it didn't look as if they

had a detailed description of him. He could be wrong in this

belief, perhaps fooled by an over-active imagination. But his

instinct told him that the street was covered from end to end,

that his only chance of escape lay in driving on non-stop and

displaying absolute lack of interest. He did not dare look at

his house for evidence of a Radine-type explosion. Just that

small touch of curiosity might have been enough to bring the

whole lot into action.

Altogether he counted more than forty beefy strangers hanging

around the road and doing their best to look shiftless. As

he neared the street's end four of them came out of a doorway

and walked to the kerb. Their attention was his way, their

manner that of those about to stop him on general principles.

Promptly he braked and pulled in near two others who were

squatting on a doorstep. He lowered the window, stuck his

head out. One of the sitters got to his feet, came toward him.

"Pardon," said Mowry, apologetically, "I was told first right

and second left for Asako Road. It has got me here. I must

have gone wrong somewhere."

"Where were you told?"

"Outside the military barracks."

"Some people don't know one hand from the other," opined

this character. "It should have been first right, second left, turn

right again after going through the archway."

"Thanks. One can lose a lot of time in a city this size."

"Yar, especially when dopes point with the wrong hand."

The informant returned to his doorstep, sat down. He had not

nursed even a dim suspicion.

Evidently they were not on the watch for someone easily

recognisable, or, at any rate, not for somebody who looked

exactly like Colonel Halopti. Could be that they were in

ambush for another badly wanted specimen who happened to

live in this street. But he dared not put the matter to the test

by returning to the house and going up to his room. If wrong,

he would be finally and conclusively wrong to the last choke

of breath.

Ahead, the four who'd waited at the kerb had now resumed

their leaning against the wall, lulled by Mowry's open

conversation with their fellows. They ignored him as he drove

past. Turning right, he thankfully speeded up. However, he did

not congratulate himself. He had still a good way to go and the

entire city had become one gigantic trap.

When nearing the city's outskirts a patrol-car waved him

down. For a couple of seconds he debated whether to obey or

try outrace it. He decided in favour of the former. Bluff had

worked before, might do so again. Besides, to run for it would

be a complete giveaway and every cruizer in the area would

take up the chase. So he braked and hoped for the best.

The car drew alongside, the co-driver dropped his window.

"Where are you heading for?"

"Palmare," answered Mowry, naming a village twenty den

south of Pertane.

"That's what you think. Don't you listen to the news?"

"I haven't heard it since early this morning. Been too busy

even to get a square meal. What's happened?"

"All exits barred. Nobody allowed out the city except with

a permit from the military. You'd better go back and get

yourself informed. Or buy an evening paper."

The window went up, the patrol-car whined into top speed.

Mowry watched it go with mixed emotions. Yet again he was

sharing all the sensations of a hunted animal. Nobody could

stop him or even show undue interest in him without giving

him a nervy this-is-it feeling. If it kept up long enough a time

must inevitably come when this would be it.

He stooged around in the car until he found a news-stand

carrying the latest editions still damp from the press. Then he

parked a few minutes while he scanned the headlines. They

were big enough and likely to give the readership a few

unpleasant jolts.

PERTANE UNDER MARTTAL LAW.

TRAVEL BAN - MAYOR DECLARES POPULATION WILL STAND FIRM.

DRASTIC ACTION AGAINST DIRAC ANGESTUN GESEPT.

POLICE ON TRAIL OF MAIL BOMBERS.

TWO KILLED, TWO CAPTURED IN DARING JAIL-BREAK.

Rapidly he read the brief report under the last heading.

Lathin's body had been found and the Kaitempi had grabbed

the credit for the kill. That made Skriva something of a

prophet. Dopey had been shot to death, Brank and the other

had been taken alive. These two survivors already had

confessed to membership of a revolutionary force. There was no

mention of any others having got away. and not a single word

about the mock Colonel Halopti.

Probably authority had clamped down on some items in

the hope of giving the escapees a sense of false security. Well,

he'd better not fall into that trap; from now on he must not

show his documents to any cop or Kaitempi agent. Neither

could he substitute any other papers. The only ones near to

hand were locked in his case and surrounded by a horde of

agents: The only others were in the forest cave with a ring of

troops between here and there.

A ring of troops? Yes, that could be the weak point that

he might break through if he put a move on. It was highly

likely that the numerically strong armed forces were not yet

as well-primed as were the police and Kaitempi. And the

average trooper is not inclined to argue with a colonel, even

one in plain clothes. The chance of being cross-examined and

bullied came only from an individual of equal or higher rank.

He could not imagine any colonels or major-generals manning

the road-blocks. Anyone outranking a junior lieutenant was

more likely to be warming an office chair or boozing and

boasting in the nearest zith-parlour. At once he decided that

here lay his best opportunity to break out of the net. It wasn't

a decision difficult to reach. He'd little choice about the

matter. He must find freedom in the open country or remain

in the city until caught.

About sixty routes radiated from the perimeter of Pertane.

The main ones - such as the wide, well-used roads to Shugruma

and Radine - were likely to be more heavily guarded

than the secondary roads or potholed lanes leading to villages

or isolated factories. It was also possible that the biggest,

most important road-blocks would have a few police or agents

in company with the troops.

Many of the lesser and sneakier outlets were quite unknown

to him; a random choice might take him out of the frying-pan

and into the fire. But not far away lay a little-used side road

to Palmare with which he was familiar. It twisted and wound

in direction more or less parallel with the big main road but

it got there just the same. Once on it he could not get off it

for another forty den. He'd have to continue all the way to

Palmare, turn there onto a rutted cross-country lane that

would take him to the Valapan road. At that point he'd be

about half an hour's drive from where he usually entered the

forest.

Cutting through the suburbs he headed outward toward this

lesser road. Houses gradually thinned away and ceased. As

he drove through a market-gardening area a police cruizer

whined toward him, passed without pause. He let go a sigh of

relief as it disappeared. Presumably it had been in too great

a hurry to bother with him or perhaps its occupants had taken

it for granted that he possessed a military permit.

Five minutes later he rounded a blind corner and found a

road-block awaiting him two hundred yards beyond. A couple

of army trucks stood side-on across the road in such a position

that a car could pass provided it slowed to less than walking

pace. In front of the trucks a dozen soldiers stood in line,

coddling their automatic weapons and looking bored. There

was no cop or agent anywhere in sight.

Mowry slowed, stopped, but kept his dynomotor rotating.

The soldiers eyed him with bovine curiosity. From behind the

nearest truck a broad, squat sergeant appeared, marched up

to the car.

"Have you got an exit permit?"

"Don't need one," responded Mowry, speaking with the

authority of a four-star general. Opening his wallet, he

displayed his identity-card and prayed to God that the sight of

it would not produce a howl of triumph.

It didn't. The sergeant looked at it, stiffened, saluted.

Noticing this, the nearby troops straightened themselves and

assumed expressions of military alertness.

In apologetic tones the sergeant said, "I regret that I must

ask you to wait a moment, Colonel. My orders are to report

to the officer in charge if anyone claims the right to go through

without a permit"

"Even the Military Intelligence?"

"It has been emphasised that this order covers everyone

without exception, sir. I have no choice but to obey."

"Of course, Sergeant," agreed Mowry, condescendingly. "I

will wait"

Saluting again, the sergeant went at the double behind the

trucks. Meanwhile the twelve troopers posed with the rigid

self consciousness of those aware of a brasshat in the vicinity.

In short time the sergeant came back bringing with him a very

young and worried looking lieutenant.

This officer marched precisely up to the car, saluted, opened

his mouth just as Mowry beat him to the draw by saying,

"You may stand easy, Lieutenant"

The other gulped, let his legs relax, fumbled for words,

finally got out, "The sergeant tells me you have no exit permit

-- Colonel."

"That's right. Have you got one?"

Taken aback, the lieutenant floundered a bit, said, "No sir."

"Why not?"

"We are on duty outside the city."

"So am I," informed Mowry.

"Yes, sir." The lieutenant pulled himself together. He seemed

unhappy about something. "Will you be good enough to let

me see your identity-card, sir? It is just a formality. I'm sure

that everything will be all right"

"I know that everything will be all right," said Mowry, as

though giving fatherly warning to the young and inexperienced.

Again he displayed the card.

The lieutenant gave it no more than a hurried glance. "Thank

you, Colonel. Orders are orders, as you will appreciate." Then

he curried favour by demonstrating his efficiency. He took one

step backward and gave a classy salute which Mowry acknowledged

with a vague wave. Jerking himself round like an automaton,

the lieutenant brought his right foot down with a hard

thump and screamed at the top of his voice, "Pass one!"

Opening out, the troops obediently passed one. Mowry

crawled through the block, curving around the tail of the first

truck, twisting the opposite way around the second. Once

through he hit up maximum speed. It was a temptation to

feel gleeful but he didn't. He was sorry for that young lieutenant

who, before long, would be taking a prize lambasting. It

was easy to picture the scene when a senior officer arrived

at the post to check up.

`Anything to report, Lieutenant?1

`Not much, sir. No trouble of any sort. It has been very

quiet. I let one through without a permit.`

`You did? Why was that?`

`He was Colonel Halopti, sir.`

`Halopti? That name seems familiar. I'm sure I heard it

mentioned as I left the other post.`

Helpfully, `He is in the M.I., sir.`

`Yar. yar. But that name means something. Why don't they

keep us properly informed? Have you a short-wave set?

`Not here, sir. There is one at the next main road block.

We have a field telephone.`

`All right, I'll use that` A little later, `You hopeless

imbecile! This Halopti is wanted all over the planet! And you

let him slip through your hands - you ought to be shot! How

long has he been gone? Did he have anyone with him? Will

he have passed through Palmare yet? Sharpen your wits, fool,

and answer me! Did you note the number of his car? No,

you did not - that would be too much to expect.`

And so on and so on. Yes, the balloon would go up most

anytime. Perhaps in three or four hours, perhaps within ten

minutes. The thought of it made Mowry maintain what was

a reckless speed on such a twisting and badly surfaced road.

He shot through small and sleepy Palmare half expecting

to be fired upon by local vigilantes. Nothing happened except

that a few faces glanced out of windows as he went by.

Nobody saw him turn off the road a little beyond the village

and take to the crude track that led to the Pertane-Valapan

artery.

Now he was compelled to slow down whether he liked it

or not. Over the terrible surface the car bumped and rolled

at quarter speed. If anything came the other way he'd be in

a jam because there was no room to pull aside or turn. Two

jetplanes moaned through the gathering dusk but carried

straight on, indifferent to what was taking place below. Soon

afterward a 'copter came low over the horizon, followed it

a short distance, dropped back and disappeared. Its course

showed that it was circling around Pertane, possibly checking

the completeness of military positions.

Eventually he reached the Pertane-Valapan route without

having encountered anything on the track. Accelerating, he

made for the forest entry-point. A number of army vehicles

trundled heavily along but there was no civilian traffic to or

from distant Pertane. Those inside the city could not get out,

those outside did not want to go in lest they be detained there

for weeks.

At the moment he reached the identifying tree and tombstone

the road was clear in both directions. Taking full advantage

of the opportunity he drove straight over the verge and

into the forest as far as the car could go. Jumping out, he

went back and repeated his former performance of carefully

eliminating all tyre tracks where they entered the forest and

checking that the car was invisible from the road.

The dark of night now was halfway across the sky. That

meant he had to face another badly slowed-down traipse to

the cave. Alternatively he could sleep overnight in the car

and start his journey with the dawn. The latter was preferable;

even a wasp needs rest and slumber. On the other hand the

cave was more peaceful, more comfortable and a good deal

safer than the car. There he could enjoy a real Terran

breakfast, after which he could lie full length and snooze like

a child instead of rolled up with one ear and one eye open. He

started for the cave at once, trying to make the most use of

the fading light while it lasted.

With the first streaks of morning he came wearily and red-eyed

through the last of the trees. His finger-ring had been

tingling for fifteen minutes so that he made his approach with

confidence. Clumping along the pebble beach he went into

the cave, fixed himself a hearty meal. Then he crawled into a

sleeping-bag and surrendered consciousness. The transmission

of his report could wait. It would have to wait: communication

might bring instructions impossible to carry out before

he'd had a good spell of slumber.

He must have needed it because he lay without stirring

through the entire day. Dusk again was creeping in when he

awoke. Setting up another feed, he ate it, felt on top of the

world, expressed it by flexing his muscles and whistling badly

off-tune.

For a short while he studied the massed containers and

nursed a few regrets. In one of them reposed material for

repeated changes of appearance plus documents to cover no

less than thirty more fake identities. The situation being what

it was he'd be darned lucky to get through three of them.

Another container held publicity stuff including the means to

print and mail more letters.

Ait Lithar was the fifth.

The list is Iong.

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

But what was the use? The Kaitempi had claimed that kill.

Moreover he needed to know the names of any mail-bomb

victims so that D.A.G. could exploit those too. He lacked this

information. Anyway, the time for that kind of propaganda

had now gone past. The entire world was on the jump,

reinforcements had been poured in from Diracta, battle-stations

had been taken up against a revolutionary army that did not

exist. In such circumstances threatening letters had become

mere fleabites.

Dragging out Container-5 he set it up, wound it into action

and let it run. For two and a half hours it operated silently.

Whirrup-dzzt-pam! Whirrup-dzzt-pam!

"Jaimec calling ! Jaimec calling !"

Contact was established when the gravelly voice said, "Come

in. Ready to tape."

Mowry responded, "JM on Jaimec," then babbled on as fast

as he could go and to considerable length. He finished,

"Pertane isn't tenable until things quieten down and I don't

know how long that will take. Personally, I think the panic

will spread to other towns. When they can't find what they're

seeking in one place they'll start raking systematically through

all the others."

There was a long silence before the faraway voice came

back with, "We don't want things to quieten down. We want

them to spread. Get working at once on phase nine."

"Nine?" he ejaculated, "I'm only on four. What about five,

six, seven and eight?"

"Forget them. Time is running short. There's a ship getting

near to you with another wasp on board. We sent him to tend

phase nine thinking you'd been nabbed. Anyway, we'll beam

instructions that he's to stay on the ship while we pick him

another planet. Meanwhile you get busy."

"But phase nine is strictly a pre-invasion tactic."

"That's right," said the voice, drily. "I just told you time is

running short."

It cut off. Communication had ended. Mowry stacked the

cylinder back in the cave. Then he went outside and gazed at

the stars.

Phase nine was designed to bring about a further dispersal

of the enemy's overstretched resources and to place yet another

great strain upon his creaking war-machine. It was, so to

speak, one of several possible last straws.

The idea was to make panic truly planet-wide by spreading

it from land to water. Jaimec was peculiarly susceptible to

this kind of blow. On a colonial world populated by only one

race of only one species there had been no national or

inter-national rivalries, no local wars, no development of navies.

The nearest that Jaimec could produce to a sea-going force

consisted of a number of fast motor-boats, lightly armed and

used solely for coastal patrol work.

Even the merchant fleet was small by Terran standards.

Jaimec was under-developed and no more than six hundred

ships sailed the planet's seas on about twenty well-defined

routes. There wasn't a vessel larger than fifteen thousand tons.

Nevertheless the local war effort was critically dependent upon

the unhampered coming and going of these ships. To delay

their journeys or ruin their schedules or bottle them up in

port would play considerable hob with the entire Jaimecan

economy.

This sudden switch from phase four to nine meant that the

oncoming Terran spaceship must be carrying a load of periboobs

which it would scatter in the world's oceans before

making a quick getaway. Almost certainly the dropping would

be done by night and along the known sea-lanes.

At college Mowry had been given full instruction about

this tactic and the part he was expected to play. The stunt.

had a lot in common with his previous activities, being

designed to make a thoroughly aggravated foe hit out left and

right at what wasn't there.

He'd been shown a sectionalised periboob. This deceitful

contraption resembled an ordinary oil-drum with a twenty-

foot tube projecting from its top. At the uppermost end of

the tube was fixed a flared nozzle. The drum portion held a

simple magneto-sensitive mechanism. The whole thing could

be mass produced at low cost.

When in the sea a periboob floated so that its nozzle and

four to six feet of tube stood above the surface. If a mass of

steel or iron approached to within four hundred yards of it,

the mechanism operated and the whole gadget sank from

sight. If the metal mass receded, the periboob promptly arose

until again its tube poked above the waves.

To function efficiently this gadget needed a prepared stage

and a spotlight. The former had been arranged at the outbreak

of war by permitting the enemy to get hold of top secret plans

of a three-man midget submarine small enough and light

enough for an entire flotilla to be transported in one space-

ship. Mowry now had to provide the spotlight by causing a

couple of merchant vessels to sink at sea after a convincing

bang.

Jaimecans were as capable as anyone else of adding two

and nothing together and making it four. If everything went

as planned the mere sight of a periboob would cause any ship

to race for safety while filling the ether with yells for help.

Other ships, hearing the alarm, would make wide, time-wasting

detours or tie up in port. The dockyards would frantically

switch from the building and repair of cargo vessels

to the construction of useless destroyers. Numberless jetplanes,

copters and even space-scouts would take over the futile task

of patrolling the oceans and bombing, periboobs wherever

they might be found.

The chief beauty of this form of naughtiness was that it

did not matter in the least if the enemy discovered he was

being kidded. He could trawl a periboob from the depths,

take it apart, demonstrate how it worked to every ship's master

on the planet and it would make no difference. If two ships

had been sunk, two hundred more might go down. A periscope

is a periscope, there's no swift way of telling the false

from the real and no captain in his right mind will invite a

torpedo while trying to find out.

Alapertane (little Pertane) was the biggest and nearest port

on Jaimec. It lay forty den west of the capital, seventy den

north-west of the cave. Population a quarter million. It was

highly likely that Alapertane had escaped most of the official

hysteria pervading elsewhere, that its police and Kaitempi

were less suspicious, less active. Mowry had never visited the

place and therefore neither had Dirac Angestun Gesept. So

far as Alapertane was concerned he had little grief to inherit.

Well, Terra knew what it was doing and orders must be

carried out. He would have to make a trip to Alapertane and

get the job done as soon as possible. On his own, without the

dubious help of Gurd and Skriva who - so long as the hunt

was on - remained dangerous liabilities.

Opening a container, Mowry took out a thick wad of documents,

thumbed through them and carefully considered the

thirty identities available. All of them had been devised to

suit specific tasks. There were half a dozen that established

his right to roam around the docks and peer at shipping. He

chose a set of papers that depicted him as a minor official of

the Planetary Board of Maritime Affairs.

Next he made himself up for the part. It took him more

than an hour. In the end he was an elderly, bookish bureaucrat

peering through steel-rimmed spectacles. That done, he

amused himself blinking at his image in a metal mirror and

talking nonsense in characteristically querulous tones.

Long hair would have perfected his appearance since he

still had the short military crop of Halopti. A wig was out of

the question; except for spectacles, the strict rule of facial

disguise was to wear nothing that could be knocked, blown

or taken off. So he shaved a patch of cranium to suggest

approaching baldness and left it at that.

Finally he found himself another case, inserted its plastic

key and opened it. Despite all the risks he had taken and might

again take this was the action he detested most. He could

never get rid of the notion that explosive luggage was highly

temperamental, that many a wasp had been blown to the

nether regions with a phantom key in his hand and that Terran

authorities had kept silent about it.

From yet another container he took three limpet mines,

two for use and one as a spare. These were hemispherical

objects with a heavy magnetic ring projecting from the fiat

side, a timing-switch on the opposite, curved side. They

weighed eleven pounds apiece and together made a load he'd

rather have been without. Putting these in the case, he stuffed

a pocket with new money, checked his gun. Switching Container-22

he set forth, again through the dark.

By now he was becoming more than fed up with the long,

trying journey from the cave to the road. It hadn't looked

much on an aerial photograph when seen through a stereoscopic

viewer but the actual doing of it was tough. Especially

when trudging through the dark and carrying a load.

Repeatedly he cursed his choice of a hideout while reluctantly

admitting that his cache had been protected by its very

remoteness.

He reached the car in broad daylight, thankfully dumped

the case on the back seat, checked the road for passing

vehicles. The coast was clear. Racing back to the car he got

it out fast, parked it while he scuffed tire-tracks from the

verge. There he headed for Alapertane, choosing a route that

kept him as far as possible from the angry capital.

Fifteen minutes later he was compelled to pull up. The road

was filled with a convoy of army vehicles that were bucking

and rocking as they reversed one by one into a treeless space.

Troops who had dismounted were filtering in ragged lines

between the trees on both sides of the road. A dozen glum

civilians were sitting in one truck with four soldiers to guard

them.

As Mowry sat watching a captain came alongside the car

and asked, "Where're you from?"

"Valapan"

"Where d'you live?"

"Kiestra, just outside Valapan"

"Where're you going?"

"Alapertane."

This seemed to satisfy the other. He made to move off.

Mowry called, "What's happening here, Captain?"

"A round-up. We're collecting the windy and taking them

back where they belong."

"The windy?" Mowry looked baffled.

"Yar. The night before last a lot of yellow-bellied sokos

bolted out of Pertane and took to the woods. They were

worried about their skins, see? More followed early yesterday

morning. By now half the city would be gone if we hadn't

pinned them in. Civilians make me sick."

"What got them on the run?"

"Talk," He gave a sniff of contempt. "Just a lot of talk."

"Well, there's no rush from Valapan," offered Mowry.

"Not yet," the captain gave back. He walked away, bawled

out a slow-moving squad.

The last trucks got off the road and Mowry forged ahead.

Evidently the jailbreak had coincided with strong governmental

action against a jittery populace as well as against subversive

forces. The city would have been ringed in any event,

whether Gurd had been wangled out the jug or not.

Speculations about the fate of Gurd and Skriva occupied

his mind as he drove along. Had they been caught or were

they lying low somewhere within the ring? As he passed

through a village he was tempted momentarily to stop, call

their telephone number and see what response he got. He

resisted the notion as profitless but he did pause long enough

to buy a morning paper.

The news was little different, the usual mixture of boastings,

threats, promises, directives and warnings. One paragraph

stated categorically that more than eighty members of Dirac

Angestun Gesept had been hauled in `including one of their

so-called generals.` He wondered how this could be and which

unfortunate character had been burdened with the status of

a revolutionary general. There was nothing about Gurd and

Skriva, no mention of Colonel Halopti.

Throwing the paper away, he continued his journey. Shortly

before noon he reached the centre of Alapertane and asked a

pedestrian the way to the docks. Though hungry once more

he did not take time off for a meal. Alapertane was not

surrounded, no snap searches were taking place, no patrol-car

had halted and quizzed him. He felt it wise to cash in on a

favourable situation that might soon change for the worse.

So without bothering about a feed he made straight for the

waterfront.

Planting the dyno in the private car-park of a shipping

company, he approached the gates of the first dock on foot,

blinked through his spectacles at the policeman standing by

the entrance and asked, "Which way to the harbour-master's

office?"

The cop pointed. "Right opposite the third set of gates."

Going there, Mowry entered the office, tapped on the

counter with the impatience of an oldster in a hurry. A junior

pen-pusher responded.

"You wish?"

Showing him his papers, Mowry said, "I wish to know which

ships will depart before dawn tomorrow and from which docks

they will leave."

Obediently the other dug out a long, narrow book and

sought through its pages. It did not occur to him to question

the reason for this request. A piece of paper headed Planetary

Board of Maritime Affairs was more than enough to satisfy

him and, as any fool knew, neither Alapertane nor its ships

were menaced by the Spakum forces.

"Destinations as well?" asked the youth.

"No, those don't matter. I wish only the names, the times

of departure and the dock numbers." Mowry produced a stub

of pencil, a sheet of paper and peered fussily over his glasses.

"There are four," informed the other. "The Kitsi at eight-

time, dock three. The Anthus at eight-time, dock one. The

Su-cattra at nineteen-time, dock seven. The Su-limane at

nine-teen-time, also dock seven." He flipped a page, added

informatively, "The Melami was due to leave at nineteen-time but is

held up with some kind of trouble in the engine-room. It is

likely to be delayed several days."

"That one doesn't matter."

Leaving, he returned to the car, got out the case and went

to dock seven. The policeman on duty took one look at his

documents and let him through the gates without argument.

Once inside he walked quickly toward the long shed behind

which towered a line of cranes and a couple of funnels.

Rounding the end of the shed he found himself facing the

stern of the Su-cattra.

One glance told him that at the present time he had not the

slightest hope of fixing a limpet-mine unseen. The vessel lay

against the dockside, its hatches battened down, its winches

silent, but many workers were hand-loading late cargo by

luggug it up the gangways from waiting trucks and a small

mob of officials stood around watching. Across the basin lay

the Su-limane also taking cargo aboard.

For a short time he debated within himself whether to go

after the Anthus and Kitsi. There was the disadvantage that

they were in different docks a fair distance apart. Here, he had

two suitable ships within easy reach of each other. And it was

probable that the other vessels also were loading, thus being

no easier to victimise.

It seemed that in his haste he had arrived too early. The

best thing for him to do would be to go away and come back

later after workers and officials had gone home. But if the cop

on the gate or a waterfront patrol became nosey it would be

hard to explain his need to enter the deserted dock area after

all work had ceased. A hundred excuses could turn into a

hundred self-betrayals.

`I have a personal message for the captain of the Su-cattra.'

`Yar? What is his name?'

Or, `I have a corrected cargo manifest to deliver to the

Su-limane .'

`Yar? Let me see it. What's the matter-can't you find it?

How can you deliver it if you haven't got it? If it's not in

your pockets it may be in that bag. Why don't you look in

the bag? You afraid to open it, hi?'

Leaving the dockside he walked past the end of the huge

shed which stretched the entire length of the dock. Its sliding

doors stood three feet ajar. He went through without hesitation.

The side farthest from the dock was stacked roof-high

with packing-cases of every conceivable shape and size. The

opposite side was part full. Near the main quayside doors

halfway up the shed stood an array of cardboard cartons and

bulging sacks which workers were taking out to the Su-cattra.

Seeing the name Melami stencilled all over the nearest stack

of cargo, Mowry looked swiftly toward the distant loaders,

assured himself that he had not been observed, dodged behind

a big crate. Though no longer visible from inside the shed he

could easily be seen by anyone passing the sliding doors

through which he had entered. Holding his case endwise ahead

of him, he inched through the narrow gap between two more

crates, climbed over a big coffin-shaped box, squirmed into a

dark alcove between the stack and the shed's outer wall.

It was far from comfortable here. He could not sit, neither

could he stand erect. He had to remain half-bent until, tired

of that, he knelt on his case. But at least he was safe. The

Melami was held up and nobody was likely to heave its cargo

around for the fun of it.

He stayed there for what seemed a full day. The time came

when whistles blew and sounds of outside activity ceased.

Through the shed's wall sounded a muffled tramp of many

feet as workers left for home. Nobody had bothered to close

the shed's doors and he couldn't make up his mind whether

that was a good thing or not. Locked doors would suggest an

abandoned dockside guarded by none save the cop on the

gate. Open doors implied the arrival of a night-shift or

per-haps the protection of roving patrols.

Edging out of the alcove he sat on a crate and rubbed his

aching knee-caps: He waited two more hours to let overtime

workers and other eager beavers get clear. When his patience

ran out he walked through the deserted shed, stopped behind

its quayside doors that were directly opposite the middle of

the Su-cattra.

From the case he took a limpet-mine, set its timing-switch

to give a twenty-hour delay, threaded a length of thin cord

through the holding loop. He peeped out the door. There was

not a soul on the dockside but a few sailors were busy on

the ship's top deck.

Boldly he stepped out of the shed, crossed the intervening

ten yards and dropped the mine into the narrow stretch of

water between ship and dockside. It hit with a dull plop and

a slight splash, sank rapidly to the limit of its cord. It was

now about eight feet below the surface and did not immediately

take hold. He waggled the cord to turn the magnetic,

face toward the ship. The mine promptly attached itself with

a clang loud enough to resound all over the big vessel. Quickly

he let go one end of the cord, pulled on the other and reeled

it in through the holding-loop.

High above him a sailor came to the deckrail, leaned on it

and looked down. By that time Mowry had his back toward

him and was strolling casually toward the shed: The sailor

watched him go inside, glanced at the stars, spat in the water

and went back to his chore.

Soon afterward he repeated the performance with the

Su-limane , sticking the mine amidships and eight feet down

That one also had a twenty-hour delay. Again the clang

aroused careless attention, bringing three curious sailors to

the side. But they took their time about it, saw nobody,

shrugged it off and forgot it.

Mowry made for the exit gates. On the way he passed two

officers returning to their ship. Engrossed in conversation,

they did not so much as glance at him. If only they'd known

of the long swim in store, he thought, they'd willingly have

beaten out his brains.

A different policeman was on duty by the gates as he went

through.

"Live long!"

"Live long!" echoed the cop, and turned his attention elsewhere.

Trudging a long way down the road and rounding the corner near

to the gates of dock three, Mowry saw the car-park and came

to a halt. A hundred yards away his car was standing exactly

where he had left it but had become the subject of unwelcome

interest. Its hood was raised and a couple of uniformed

police were prying around the exposed dynomotor.

They must have unlocked the car with a master-key in order

to operate the hood's release-catch. To go to that length meant

they were not amusing themselves by being officious. They

were on a definite trail.

Retreating behind the corner, Mowry gave swift thought to

the matter. Obviously those cops were looking for the

dynomotor's serial number. In another minute one of them would

be crawling under the car to check the chassis number. This

suggested that at last authority had realised that Sagramatholou's

car. had changed its plates. So the order had gone out to

inspect all cars of that particular date and type.

Right in front of him, hidden from the car-park, stood the

unoccupied cruizer belonging to those nosey-pokes. They must

have left it there intending to edge it forward a few feet and

use it as a watching-post if necessary. Once they'd satisfied

themselves that the suspected dyno was indeed a hot one,

they'd come back on the run to set a stakeout.

Cautiously he took a peep around the corner. One was talking

excitedly while the other scribbled in a notebook. It would

be another minute before they returned because they would

close the hood and relock the dyno in order to bait the trap.

Certain that no passer-by would question something done

with casual confidence, he tried the cruizer's door-handle. It

was locked. He had no key with which to open it, no time to

pick it, and that put an end to any thought of taking one car

in lieu of the other. Opening his case, he took out the spare

limpet-mine, set it for a one-hour delay. He lay in the road,

rapidly inched himself under the cruizer and stuck the bomb

to the centre of its steel framework. Wriggling out, he brushed

himself down with his hands. Seven people had seen him go

under and emerge. Not one viewed his actions as extraordinary.

He snatched up his case and departed at a pace that was

little short of a shambling run. At the next corner he looked

back. One cop was now sitting in the cruizer and using its

short-wave radio: The other was out of sight, presumably

concealed where he could watch the dyno. Evidently they were

transmitting the news that the missing car had been found and

were summoning help to surround it.

Yet again adverse circumstances were chivvying him into

a tight corner. He had lost the car on which he had relied so

much and which had stood him in such good stead. All that

he now possessed were his gun, a set of false documents, a

large wad of counterfeit money and a case that was empty

save for what was wired to its lock

.

The case he got rid of by placing it in the entrance to the

main post-office. That action would not help to cool things

down. Discovery of his dyno had warned Alapertane that

Sagiamatholou's killer was somewhere within its bounds.

While they were squatting around it in readiness to snare him

a police cruizer would shower itself all over the scene. Then

somebody would dutifully take a lost case to the nearest

precinct station, a cop would try key it open and make an awful

mess of the place.

Alapertane already was half-awake. Two big bangs were

going to bring it fully awake and on its toes. Somehow he'd

have to get out before they copied the Pertane tactic and

ringed the town with troops.

Chapter XI

THIS WAS A time when he regretted the destruction of Pigface's

card in that explosion at Radine. He could do with it now.

Equally he was sorry that he'd given Sagramatholou's badge

to Skriva. Despite looking as much like a Kaitempi agent as

a purple porcupine, either the card or badge would have

enabled him to commandeer any civilian car in town simply by

ordering its driver to take him wherever he wished to go, shut

up and do as you're told.

He had one advantage: the hunters had no real description

of Sagramatholou's killer. Possibly they were shooting in the

dark by seeking the elusive Colonel Halopti. Or perhaps they

were chasing a purely imaginary description which the

Kaitempi had tormented out of its captives. It wasn't likely

that they'd be eagerly sniffing around for an elderly, slightly

befuddled civilian who wore glasses and was too daft to know

one end of a gun from the other.

All the same, they would quiz anyone they caught leaving

town in a hurry at this particular time, even if he looked the

soul of innocence. They might take it further by searching

every outward traveller in which event he'd be damned by

possession of a gun and a large sum of money. They might

also hold any and every suspect pending a thorough check of

identities. That also would get the noose round his neck. The

Board of Maritime Affairs had never heard of him.

Therefore escape by train was out of the question. The same

applied to long-distance buses. They'd all be watched Ten to

one the entire police network was ready to take up the

relent-less pursuit of any car reported stolen; they would assume

that the culprit might have dumped one dyno intending to

steal another. It was too late in the day to acquire another

car by buying it outright. But... hah, he could do what he'd

done before. He could rent one.

It took him quite a while to find a hire-and-drive agency.

The evening was drawing in, many businesses already had

shut for the night, others were near their closing time. In one

way that might be a help: maybe the lateness of the hour

would cover his haste and get him prompt service.

"I wish to rent that bullnozed sportster for four days. Is it

available at once?"

"Yar."

"How much?"

"Thirty guilders a day. That's one-twenty."

"I'll take it.”

`You want it right away?"

"Yar, I do."

"I'll have it made ready for you and get you the bill. Take

a seat. Won't keep you more than a few minutes." The salesman

went into a small office at back. The door swung slowly

and had not quite closed when his voice penetrated the gap,

saying, "A renter in a hurry, Siskra. He looks all right to me.

But you'd better call and tell them."

Mowry was out the front, down the street and around two

corners before the unseen Siskra had time to finish dialling.

He'd been out-thought. The hunt was a move ahead of him.

All renting agencies had been warned to report every applicant

for a car. Only a narrow door-gap had saved him. If it

had closed and silenced the voice he'd still have been sitting

there when a carload of agents burst in.

`Why d'you want this dyno, hi? Where d'you plan to go

with it? Wbere d'you live? Who are you, anyway? Hold your

arms up while we have a look at your pockets.`

His back was sticky with sweat as he put plenty of distance

between him and the dyno-dump. He threw away his glasses

and was mighty glad to be rid of them. A bus came along

bearing the sign: Airport. Now he remembered that he'd

passed an airport on the road coming in. Wasn't likely that

Alapertane had more than one of them. Undoubtedly the port

itself would be staked right, left and centre, but he did not

intend to ride that far. This bus would take him to the outer

suburbs and in the direction he wanted to go. Without

hesitation he jumped aboard.

Although his knowledge of the town was small his inward

journey had given him a shrewd idea of how far he could go

without reaching the fringes. A police check was likeliest

immediately outside the town where the road left the built-up

area and took to the country. At that point all those aboard '

could be regarded as leaving Alapertane and therefore fit

subjects for questioning. He must get off the bus before then.

Dismounting in good time, he continued walking outward

in the hope that on foot he could avoid the checking-post by

sneaking past unobserved, say by taking to the fields. Day

was almost done; the sun was half under the horizon and

light was dimming fast.

He slowed his pace, decided that he'd stand a better chance

of getting through in darkness. But he dared not draw

attention to himself by mooching up and down the road or sitting

on the kerb until nightfall. It was essential that he should

look like a local citizen homeward bound. Turning off the

main road he detoured at set pace through a long series of

side-roads, circled back, regained the main one when the sky

was black.

Continuing outward, he concentrated attention straight

ahead. After a while the road-lights ended, the shine from

many house windows ceased and in the distance he could see

the sky-glow of the airport. It would be anytime now. He had

a strong urge to walk through the darkness on tiptoe.

A bus overtook him, hummed into the heavy gloom, stopped

with a brief blaze of braking lights. Cautiously Mowry

advanced; got to within twenty yards of the bus. It was fully

loaded with passengers and luggage. Three policemen were

on board, two of them checking faces and documents while

the third blocked the exit door.

On the verge and right alongside Mowry stood a cruizer, its

doors wide open and its lights extinguished. It would have

been almost invisible but for the glow from the nearby bus.

But for the present hold-up he might have sneaked to within

grabbing distance before seeing it; they'd have sat in silence,

listening to the faint scuffle of his feet, and jumped him as

he came abreast of them.

Calmly he got into the cruizer, sat behind its wheel, closed

the doors and started the dynomotor. On the bus an irate cop

was yelling at a frightened passenger while his two fellows

looked on with cynical amusement. The click of door-locks

and the low whine of a motor went unheard during this stream

of abuse. Rolling the cruizer off the verge and onto the road,

Mowry switched on the powerful headlights. Twin beams

pierced the night, bathed a long stretch of road in shining

amber, filled the bus with their glare. He accelerated past the

bus, saw the three cops and a dozen passengers staring out

at him.

He bulleted ahead feeling that the fates had been kind and

compensated for recent ill fortune. It was going to be some

time before the alarm went out and the pursuit commenced.

By the looks on the faces of those police they had not realised

that it was their own car shooting past. Perhaps they thought

he was a motorist who'd taken advantage of their preoccupation

to slip by unquestioned.

But it was likely they'd take action to prevent a repetition.

Two of them would continue to browbeat the bus passengers

while the thixd went out to catch any more sneakers. In that

event the third could hardly fail to notice the absence of the

cruizer.

That's when the fun would start. He'd give a lot to see

their faces. No cruizer meant no radio either. They'd have to

rush the bus to the far-off airport, or stir their lazy legs and

run like mad to the nearest house with a telephone. Better

still, they'd have to make a humiliating confession over the

line and take a verbal beating-up from the other end.

This mental reminder that in seizing the car he had also

acquired a police radio caused Mowry to switch it on. At

once it came to life.

"Car Ten. Suspect claims he was examining parked cars

because he's completely forgotten where he's left his own. He

is unsteady, his speech is slurred and he smells of zith-but

he may be putting on an act."

"Bring him in, Car Ten," ordered Alapertane H.Q.

Soon afterward Car Nineteen asked for help in ringing a

waterfront warehouse, reason not stated. Three cars were

ordered to rush there at once.

Mowry turned the two-way switch to get the other channel.

It was silent a long time before it said, "K-car. Waltagan

calling. A seventh has now entered house."

A voice rasped back, "You'd better wait. The other two

may turn up yet."

That sounded as if some unfortunate household was going

to suffer a late-night raid by the Kaitempi. The motive was

anyone's guess but it did not necessarily have anything to do

with the finding of Sagramatholou's dyno. The Kaitempi could

and would snatch anyone for reasons known only to themselves;

they could draft any citizen into the ranks of D.A.G.

merely by declaring him in. The Kaitempi could do anything

they pleased - except smack down a wasp, push away a

Spakum space-fleet or win a war.

He switched back to the police channel because over that

would come the howl of fury about a missing cruizer. The

radio continued to mutter about suspects, fugitives, this, that

or the other car, go here, go there and soforth. Mowry ignored

the gab while he gave his full attention to driving at the best

speed he could make.

When twenty-five den from Alapertane the radio yelped as

the big long-range transmitter in Pertane itself let go with a

powerful bellow.

"General call. Car Four stolen from Alapertane police. Last

seen racing south on main road to Valapan. May now be

passing through area P6-P7."

Replies came promptly from all cruizers within or near the

designated area. There were eleven. The Pertane transmitter

started moving them around like pieces on a chess-board, using

coded map-references that meant nothing to the listener.

One thing seemed certain: if he kept to the main Valapan

road it wouldn't be long before a cruizer spotted him and

caused every car within range to converge upon him. To take

to minor roads and tracks wouldn't help any; they'd expect

a trick like that and perhaps even now were taking steps to

counter it.

He could dump the car on the other side of a field, all its

lights out, and take to foot - in which case they would not

find it before daylight tomorrow. But unless he could grab

another car he'd be faced with a walk that would last all night

and all next day, perhaps longer if he was forced to take cover

frequently.

Listening to the calls still coming over the air, and irritated

by the mysterious map-references, it struck him that this

systematic concentration of the search was based on the

supposition that if a suspect flees in a given direction at a given

average speed he must be within a given area at a given time.

This area had a radius plenty large enough to allow for turnoffs

and detours. All they needed to do was bottle all the exits

and then run along every road within the trap.

Suppose they did just that and found nothing? Ten to one

they'd jump to a couple of alternative conclusions: the fugitive

had never entered the area because he had reversed direction

and now was racing northward, or else he had made far

better speed than expected, had got right through the district

before the trap closed and now was southward of it. Either

way they'd remove the local pressure, switch the chase nearer

to Valapan or northward of Alapertane.

He whizzed past a sideroad before he saw it, braked,

reversed, went forward into it. A faint glow strengthened

above a rise farther along the road he'd just left. Tearing along

the badly rutted sideroad while the distant glow sharpened

in brilliance, he waited until the last moment before stopping

and switching off his own lights.

In total darkness he sat there while a pair of blazing head-

lamps came over the hill. Automatically his hand opened the

door and he made ready to bolt if the lamps should slow

down and enter his own road.

The oncomer approached the junction, stopped.

Mowry got out, stood by his car with gun held ready and

legs tensed. The next moment the other car surged forward

along its own road, dimmed into the distance and was gone.

There was no way of telling whether it had been a hesitant

civilian or a police patrol on the rampage. If the latter, they

must have looked up the gloom-wrapped sideroad and seen

nothing to tempt them into it. They'd get round to that in

due time. Finding nothing on the major roads they'd eventually

take to the minor ones.

Breathing heavily, Mowry got back behind the wheel,

switched on his lights, made good pace onward. Before long

he reached a farm, paused to look it over. Its yard and out-

buildings adjoined the farmhouse in which thin gleams of light

showed the occupants to be still awake. Leaving the place,

he pushed on.

He checked two more farms before finding one suitable for

his purpose. The house stood in complete darkness and its

barn was some distance from it. With dimmed lights, moving

slowly and quietly, he drove through the muddy yard, along

a narrow lane, stopped under the open end of the barn.

Leaving the car he climbed atop the hay and lay there.

Over the next four hours the shine of distant headlights

swept repeatedly all around. Twice a car rocked and plunged

along the sideroad, passed the farm without stopping. Both

times he sat up in the hay, took out his gun. Evidently it did

not occur to the hunters that he might park within the trap.

On Jaimec fugitives from the police or Kaitempi did ~not

behave like that - given a headstart they kept running good

and hard.

Gradually surrounding activity died down and ceased.

Mowry got back into the cruizer, resumed his run. It was now

three hours to dawn. If all went well he'd make it to the rim

of the forest before daybreak.

The Pertane transmitter was still broadcasting orders made

incomprehensible by use of symbols but responses from

various cruizers now came through with much less strength.

He couldn't decide whether or not this fading of radio signals

was an encouraging sign. It was certain that the transmitting

cars were a good distance away but there was no knowing how

many might be nearer and maintaining silence. Knowing full

well that he was able to listen-in to their calls, the enemy was

crafty enough to let some cars play possum.

Whether or not some cruizers were hanging around and

saying nothing, he managed to get undetected to within nine

den of his destination before the car gave up. It was tearing

through a cutting that led to the last, dangerous stretch of

main road when the green telltale light amid the instruments

faded and went out. At the same time the headlamps extinguished

and the radio died. The car rolled a short distance

under its own momentum and stopped.

Examining the switch, he could find nothing wrong with it.

The emergency switch on the floorboard didn't work either.

After a good deal of fumbling in the dark he managed to

detach one of the intake leads and tried shorting it to the

earth terminal. This should have produced a thin thread of

blue light. It didn't.

It signified only one thing: the power broadcast from the

capital had been cut off. Every car within considerable radius

of Pertane had been halted, police and Kaitempi cruizers

included. Only vehicles within potency range of other, faraway

power transmitters could continue running - unless those also

had ceased to radiate.

Leaving the car, he started to trudge the rest of the way.

He reached the main road; moved along it at fast pace while

keeping his eyes skinned for armed figures waiting ahead to

challenge any walker in the night.

After half an hour a string of lights bloomed far behind

him and to his ears came the muffled whine of many motors.

Scrambling off the road, he fell into an unseen ditch, climbed

out of it, sought refuge amid a bunch of low but thick bushes.

The lights came nearer, shot past.

It was a military scout-patrol, twelve in number, mounted

on dynocycles independently powered by long-term batteries.

In his plastic suit, with night-goggles and duralumin helmet,

each rider looked more like a deep-sea diver than a soldier.

Across the back of every trooper hung a riot-gun with a big

pan-shaped magazine.

Those in authority, he decided, must be more than aggravated

to stall all cars and let the army take over the hunt for

the missing patrol-car and its occupant. Still, from their view-

point they had good reason to go to such lengths. Dirac

Angestun Gesept had claimed the execution of Sagramatholou

and whoever had collared the agent's machine must be a real

genuine member of D.A.G. They wanted a real member in

their hands at any cost.

He speeded up, running short stretches, reverting to a fast

walk, running again. Once he lay flat on his face in tall, fish-

scented stuff that passed for grass on Jaimec. A patrol of six

went by. Later he got behind a tree to avoid four more. To

one side the sky had turned from black to gray and visibility

was improving every minute.

The last lap to the forest was the worst. In ten minutes he

leaped for cover ten times, each time uncertain whether he

had been seen because now it was possible to observe movement

over a considerable distance. This sudden increase in

local activity suggested that at last the Alapertane patrol-car

had been found. If so, they'd soon start seeking a fugitive

doing it the hard way, namely, on his feet.

Chances were good that they would not concentrate on the

immediate neighbourhood. Having no means of telling how

long the car had been abandoned they'd credit him with being

four hours ahead of where he really was and probably they'd

look for him farther afield.

Thankfully he entered the forest, made good time in growing

daylight. Tired and hungry, he was compelled to rest ten

minutes in every hour but got along as fast as he could

between times. By mid-day, when about an hour from the

cave, he had to lie down awhile in a leafy glade and snatch a

short sleep. Up to that point he had walked a total of thirty-

seven Earth-miles helped by desperation, a sense of urgency

and Jaimec's lesser gravitation.

Little refreshed, he resumed his journey and had reduced

pace to a listless mooch when he reached the point where his

finger-ring invariably began to tingle. This time it gave no

response. He halted at once, looked all around, studied the

branches of big trees ahead. The forest was a maze of light

and shadow. A silent, motionless sentinel could remain high

up in a tree for hours and not be seen by anyone approaching.

What he'd been told at college echoed in his mind. `The

ring is a warning, a reliable alarm. Heed it!`

All very well them saying that. It's one thing to give advice,

something else again to take it. The choice was not the simple

one of going ahead or going back; it was that of finding

shelter, food, comfort and necessary equipment or abandoning

everything that enabled him to operate as a wasp. It was

the choice between continuing as a solitary fighter or becoming

a useless bum. He hesitated, sorely tempted to sneak near

enough at least to get a good, long look at the cave.

Finally he compromised by moving cautiously forward,

edging from tree to tree and taking full advantage of all

available cover. In this way he advanced another hundred yards.

Still no response from the ring. Removing it from his finger

he examined its sensitive crystal, cleaned the back of it, put

it on again. Not an itch, not a twitch.

Half-hidden behind an enormous tree-root, he again considered

the position. Had there really been intruders in the cave

and, if so, were they in ambush around it? Or had Container-22

ceased to function because of some internal defect?

While he stood there in an agony of indecision a sound came

from twenty yards ahead. Low and faint, he would never have

heard it had his senses not been primed by peril. It was like a

suppressed sneeze or a muffled cough. That was enough for

him. Someone was hanging around and striving to keep quiet

about it. The cave and its contents had been discovered and

the finders were lying in wait for the owner to come along.

Trying to keep full attention on the trees, he backed away

almost at a crawl. After that it took him an hour to make a

mile, he moved so slowly and warily. Considering himself

now at a safe distance he broke into a steady walk, not

knowing where to go or what to do.

Though speculation was futile he could not help wondering

how the cache had been found. Low flying scout-planes fitted

with super-sensitive metal detectors could have pinpointed its

exact location if they'd had reason to suspect it existence in

that area. But they'd had no such cause so far as he was

aware.

Most likely the cave had been stumbled upon by some of

those who'd fled from Pertane and taken to the woods - they'd

certainly curry favour with authority by excitedly reporting

the find. Or perhaps the likely-looking hideout had been

probed by an army patrol trying to round up refugees.

Anyway, it no longer mattered a hoot. He had lost the cache

as well as further contact with Terra. All that he possessed

were the clothes in which he stood; a gun and twenty thousand

guilders. He was a rich man who owned nothing but his life

and that not worth much.

It was obvious that he must keep going away from the cave

for as long as he retained strength to move. Realizing that

they had found a Terran war-dump the powers-that-be

wouldn't long rest content with a mere ambush around it. Just

as soon as they could collect the troops they'd convert a large

section of the forest into a gigantic trap. That process would

start most anytime.

So with stumbling legs and empty guts he kept going,

steering himself by sun and shadow, maintaining his direction

steadily south-east. By dusk he'd had as much as he could

take. Flopping into a patch of reeds, he closed his eyes and

slept.

It was still dark when he awoke. He lay there until sunrise,

dozing and wakihg at intervals. Then he started out with

stronger legs, a fresher mind but weaker insides. His belly kept

appealing to his gullet but there was nothing he could do

about it yet.

Air activity was endless that day. Scout-planes and 'copters

zoomed around within hearing distance all the time. The

reason for all this display was a mystery since they'd little

hope of spotting one man in that immense forest. Perhaps the

presence and size of the cache had misled them into thinking

that a Spakum task-force had landed.

It was, easy to imagine the state of wild alarm in the capital,

with brasshats running to and fro while messages flashed back

and forth between Jaimec and Diracta. The two lamsters Wolf

had talked about had accomplished nothing like this. They'd

tied up twenty-seven thousands for fourteen hours. By the

looks of it he would preoccupy the entire planet for the next

fourteen weeks.

At nightfall all that his belly had received was water and

his sleep was made restless with hunger. In the morning he

continued, still through thick forest that stretched all the way

to the equator.

After five hours he struck a narrow lane, followed it to a

clearing in which were a small sawmill and a dozen cottages.

Before the mill stood two big, powerful trucks. From the

shelter of the trees he regarded them enviously. Nobody was

near them at the moment, he could jump into either of them

and tear away with no trouble at all. But the news of the

theft would get the entire hunt on his tail. Right now they'd

no idea of where he'd got to or where he was heading. It was

better to let their ignorance remain his bliss.

Snooping carefully between the trees, he bided his time,

bolted into a nearby garden, hurriedly filled his pockets with

vegetables, his arms with fruit. Back among the trees he ate

the fruit as he went along. Later, as twilight fell, he risked a

small fire, baked the vegetables, ate half of them and saved

the rest for the morrow.

Next day he saw not a living soul, had no food except that

reserved from yesterday. The day after was worse: just trees,

trees and still more trees with not an edible nut or berry among

the lot, no sign of habitation, nothing at all to eat. From far

to the north still came the faint humming of aircraft and that

was the only thing to suggest the presence of life on the planet.

Four days afterward he reached the sideroad to Elvera, a

village south of Valapan. Still keeping to the trees he followed

it until houses came in sight. The amount of traffic on the road

wasn't abnormal and there were no signs of a special watch

being kept.

By now he was in a bad way, haggard with lack of food,

his clothing dirty and rumpled. It was fortunate, he thought,

that he had darkened his complexion, that depilatory treatment

had long abolished the need to shave, and that his last

haircut had been the Halopti crop followed by imitation

balding. Otherwise he'd now look like nothing this side of

Aldebaran.

He spent some time brushing his clothes with his hands

and tidying himself as best he could. That done, he walked

boldly into the village. If the price of a feed was a noose

around the neck he was willing to pay it providing the meal

was a good one and that he was given time to lug out his gun.

There were a dozen shops in the village including a cafe--bar

of the kind favoured by truckers. Entering, he went

straight through to the washroom, had a wash and saw himself

in a mirror for the first time in many days. He looked

sufficiently harassed to make a nosey cop give him the long, hard

stare but at least he wasn't an obvious hobo.

Returning to the front, he sat at the counter, found it difficult

to stop his mouth from drooling. The only other customers

in the place were two ancient Sirians guzzling at one table

and too intent to bother with the newcomer. A burly character

in a white coat appeared behind the counter and eyed Mowry

with faint curiosity.

"You wish?"

Mowry told him, got it, almost dribbled on it when it

arrived. He set to, forcing himself to eat slowly because the

other was watching. Finishing, he ordered the next item and

disposed of it in the same bored manner. This play-acting was

sheer hell; he could have bolted two more complete servings

and asked the fellow to wrap up another six for him to take

out.

As he shoved across the final drink, the burly one said,

"Come far?"

"Only from Valapan."

"Walk it, hi?"

"Nar, the dyno stalled two den back. I'll fix it after."

The other stared at him. "You came in a dyno? How'd you

get out of Valapan?"

"What d'you mean?" countered Mowry, not liking the trend

of conversation.

"No cars allowed into or out of Valapan today. A cop told

me so himself."

"When was this?"

"Around the nine-time hour."

"I was away before seven," Mowry said. "I'd a lot of calls to

make and got out early. Good thing I did, hi?"

"Yar," agreed the other, doubtfully. "But how're you going

to get in again?"

"I don't know. They've got to lift the ban sometime. They

can't maintain it for ever." He paid the bill, made for the door.

"Live long."

He sensed that he'd got out of there in good time. The burly

one was vaguely suspicious but not sufficiently so to bawl for

help, being the type who'd hesitate lest he make a fool of

himself.

The next call was at a nearby grocery store. He bought J,

enough of the most concentrated foods to make a package not s

too heavy to carry for miles. Here he was served without

especial interest and the conversation was brief.

"Bad about Valapan, isn't it?"

"Yar." said Mowry, yearning to hear the news.

"Hope they nab every stinking Spakum in the place."

"Yar." Mowry repeated.

"Damn the Spakums!" the other finished. "That will be

sixteen and six-tenths."

Going out with the package, he glanced along the road. The

fellow at the cafe-bar was standing by his door looking at

him. Mowry nodded familiarly, ambled from the village, shot

another glance back as he passed the last house. Noseypoke

was still standing there watching him.

With careful rationing the food lasted him ten days as he

continued through the forest and saw nobody other than

occasional lumberjacks whom he avoided. His direction was a

now a westward circle that should bring him not far south

of Radine. Despite any risks entailed, he was keeping to that

part of Jaimec of which he had some knowledge.

He'd made up his mind that when he got near to Radine

he was going to use his gun to acquire another car and a set

of genuine documents at the cost of burying a corpse in the

woods. After that he'd check the lie of the land and if things

weren't too hot in Radine maybe he could hole-up there.

Something drastic had to be done because he could not roam

the forests for ever. If he'd acquired the status of a lone outlaw

he might as well become enough of a thug to prosper.

He did not know it but bigger and wider events were overtaking

him and he was no longer a pawn in the cosmic game or the

master of his destiny.

Two hours after sunset on his last day of wandering he

reached the main Radine-Khamasta road, paralleled it through

the forest as he continued toward Radine. At precisely the

eleven-time hour a tremendous flash of light yellowed the sky

in the direction of the stronghold Khamasta. Beneath his feet

the ground gave a distinct quiver. The trees creaked while their

tops swayed. A bit later a prolonged, faraway growl came over

the horizon.

Traffic on the road swiftly thinned out and finally ceased

altogether. A thousand crimson serpents hissed up from

darkened Radine and hungrily bored into the night sky. Came

another great flash from the region of Khamasta. Something

long, black and noisy bulleted low over the forest, momentarily

blanking out the stars and sending down a blast of heat.

In the distance sounded faint, muffled rumblings, cracklings,

thumps and thuds plus a vague, indefinable babble like the

shoutings of a multitude. Mowry went into the empty road

and stared up at the sky. The stars vanished wholesale as the

thrice-wrecked and ten times decimated Terran fleets

thundered overhead four thousand strong.

Below, Mowry danced like a maniac in the middle of the

road. He shouted at the sky. He yelled and screamed and

bawled tuneless songs with meaningless words. He waved his

arms around, tossed twenty thousand guilders into the air so

that it floated around like confetti.

As the black, snouty warships roared above a veritable

torrent of stuff sailed down, seeking ground with the pale,

lemon-coloured legs of antigrav beams. He stood fascinated

while not far away a huge, cumbersome shape with enormous

caterpillar tracks fell featherlike atop twenty columnar rays,

landed with squeaks of protest from big springs.

Heart pounding, he tore southward along the road, on and

on until he bolted full-tilt into a waiting group of forty figures.

They were looking his way, ready for him, having been alerted

by the frantic clomping of his feet. The entire bunch topped

him by head and shoulders, wore dark green uniforms and

were holding things that gleamed in the starlight.

"Take it easy, Blowfly," advised a Terran voice.

Mowry panted for breath. He did not resent this rude counterthrust

to the Spakum tag. Every Sirian was a blowfly by virtue of

his purple backside.

He pawed at the speaker's sleeve. "My name is James

Mowry. I'm not what I seem - I'm a Terran."

The other, a big, lean-faced and cynical sergeant, said, "My

name's Napoleon. I'm not what I seem - I'm an emperor." He

gestured with a hand holding a whop-gun ,that looked like a

cannon. "Take him to the cage, Rogan."

"But I am a Terran," yelped Mowry, flapping his hands.

"Yeah, you look it," said the sergeant.

"I'm speaking Terran, aren't I?"

"Sure are. A hundred thousand Blowflies can speak it. They

think it gives them a certain something." He waved the cannon

again. "The cage, Rogan."

Rogan took him.

For twelve days he mooched around the prisoner-of-war

compound. The dump was very big, very full and swiftly

became fuller. Prisoners were fed regularly, guarded constantly

and that was all.

Of his fellows behind the wire at least fifty sly-eyed specimens

boasted of their confidence in the future when the sheep

would be sorted from the goats and justice would be done.

The reason, they asserted, was that for a long time they'd been

secret leaders of Dirac Angestun Gesept and undoubtedly

would be raised to power when Terran conquerors got around

to it. Then, they warned, friends would be rewarded as surely

as foes would be punished. This bragging ceased only when

three of them somehow got strangled in their sleep.

At least a dozen times Mowry seized the chance to attract

the attention of a patrolling sentry when no Sirian happened

to be nearby. "Psst! My name's Mowry - I'm a Terran."

Ten times he received confessions of faith such as, "You

look it!" or "Is zat so?"

A lanky character said, "Don't give me that!"

"It's true-I swear it!"

"You really are a Terran-hi?"

"Yar," said Mowry, forgetting himself.

"Yar to you, too."

Once he spelled it so there'd be no possibility of

misunderstanding. "See here, Buster, I'm a T-E-R-R-A-N."

To which the sentry replied, "Says Y-O-U" and hefted his

gun and continued his patrol.

Came the day when prisoners were paraded in serried ranks,

a captain stood on a crate, held a loud-hailer before his mouth

and roared all over the camp, "Anyone here named James

Mowry?"

Mowry galloped eagerly forward, bow-legged from force of

habit. "I am." He scratched himself, a performance that the

captain viewed with unconcealed disfavour.

Glowering at him, the captain demanded, "Why the heck

haven't you said so before now? We've been searching all

Jaimec for you. Let me tell you, Mister, we've got better things

to do. You struck dumb or something?"

"I-"

"Shut up! Military Intelligence wants you. Follow me."

So saying, he led the other through heavily guarded gates,

along a path toward a prefab hut.

Mowry ventured, "Captain, again and again I tried to tell

the sentries that."

"Prisoners are forbidden to talk to sentries," the captain

snapped.

"But I wasn't a prisoner."

"Then what the blazes were you doing in there?" Without

waiting for a reply he pushed open the door of the prefab

hut and introduced him with, "This is the crummy bum."

The Intelligence officer glanced up from a wad of papers.

"So you're Mowry, James Mowry?"

"Correct."

"Well now," said the officer, "we've been primed by beam-

radio and we know all about you."

"Do you really?" responded Mowry, pleased and gratified.

He braced himself for the coming citation, the paean of praise,

the ceremonial stroking of a hero's hair.

"Another mug like you was on Artishain, their tenth planet,"

the officer went on. "Feller named Kingsley. They say he hasn't

sent a signal for quite a piece. Looks like he's got himself

nabbed. Chances are he's been stepped on and squashed flat."

Mowry said suspiciously, "What's this to me?"

"We're dropping you in his place. You leave tomorrow."

"Hi? Tomorrow?"

"Sure thing. We want you to become a wasp. Nothing wrong

with you, is there?"

"No," said Mowry, very feebly. "Only my head"