Wasp

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.

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;?ith -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 people 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?ame,” 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?hat?”

“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.