Space Gladiators, page 16
He shut his mouth and stood there defiantly.
Martha began to cry.
Helen didn’t even bother to turn. She continued to stare up at the lieutenant, stationed no more than three feet from him.
The doctor looked blank.
The inspector raised eyebrows to his assistant, who shrugged a shrug that would have done every Spaniard since the Phoenicians first came to trade for tin, full proud.
The inspector turned his eyes back to the defiant chef. “Ah, what do you confess?” he said cautiously.
“To insulting this benighted, probably starving planet! Its food, its chefs, its lack of even such simplicities as bacalao, eels, cucumbers. Its …”
The inspector held up a hand to stem the tide.
“Please, Senor Lorans, will you be seated? This is a very serious matter.”
The lips of Senor Lorans began to go pale.
Martha said hurriedly, “Now, Pierre. Please sit down. You are not being insulted. We must at least hear what Sergeant What’s-his-name wants. And nobody is arresting you, Pierre.”
The inspector shot a look from the side of his eyes, but the face of Raul Dobarganes was without expression.
When Lorans had been urged back into his chair, the colonel inspector took up again, though not without misgivings. He began, “Dear guests of Falange …”
Helen said, “I think you’re pretty.” But she was talking to Teniente Dobarganes, not the inspector, not even the mother of whom would have possibly considered the description.
Raul Dobarganes could feel the pink ascending from his tight collar.
“Gosh, you even blush pretty,” Helen told him with satisfaction.
Martha said, “Helen, you be quiet now. The gentlemen have something to say.” She smiled sweetly at the inspector. “You go right ahead, Sergeant.”
Inspector Segura opened his mouth, closed it again. Paused for a long moment, then started all over.
He said to Pierre Lorans, “There is complete freedom on Falange, Senor. You have not observed correctly. This is the most stable socio-economic system ever devised. All are happy. All are in their place. Those whom the Holy Ultimate meant to administrate, do. Those whom fate meant to serve, serve. Everybody is satisfied with their lot on the planet Falange. Of how many of our sister members of United Planets can you say the same, eh?”
“Why, it sounds very nice,” Martha nodded encouragingly.
Helen piped up. “Then how come you got so many cops every wheres?”
Both the colonel and his aide looked at her blankly for a long frustrated moment.
“Ah,” Dr. Horsten murmured, “an interesting point. Out of the mouth of babes, so to speak.” His stolid face took on an absentminded quality. “It seems to me I can think of a, uh, parallel some few centuries back on Earth. A period during which the leading nations paraded about in great style loudly boasting of their degrees of freedom and how highly they valued peace and despised aggression. However, somehow, those who disclaimed loudest of their love of democracy, peace and freedom had the largest police forces, secret police, intelligence agencies, armies and navies. Such nations as Switzerland and the Scandinavian, who didn’t need to talk about their internal freedoms, invariably had small police forces and military, even judged on a per capita basis.”
The inspector said, his voice verging on the snappish now, “Forgive me. Somehow we seem to have gotten off on a tangent. I must get to the point. Last night a major crime was committed. One of such nature that only an alien could possibly be interested. You are some of the few aliens registered in this vicinity and, by coincidence, you arrived only yesterday, from Terra, the planet involved.”
“Terra? Mother Earth!” Pierre Lorans blurted, unbelievingly.
The inspector said dryly, “Rumors are beginning to go through the member planets of United Planets that Mother Earth seems to have developed into a strange parent. However, the point is that you are within a quarter mile of the scene of the crime, and you have just arrived from Terra.”
Dr. Horsten said vaguely, “Crime. When did this, uh, crime take place, my dear Inspector?”
Segura said, “At almost exactly eleven o’clock.”
The heavy-set scientist scowled and tried to remember. “Iam afraid I have no … ah, what do they say in the crime tapes on Tri-Di? Ah, yes. No alibi.”
The inspector looked at Raul Dobarganes who had at long last escaped the fascinated stare of little Helen. His assistant brought forth a report.
“At eleven o’clock last night, Doctor, you were right here in this room. Senor Lorans had been dissatisfied with his evening meal.”
“Ha!” Lorans blurted and began to come to his feet. His wife restrained him.
“You are right,” Dr. Horsten exclaimed. “I was right here with the Lorans family. A perfect alibi. I couldn’t possibly have committed this terrible crime.” A fascinated gleam came to his eyes behind their pince-nez glasses. “I love Tri-Di crime shows,” he confided. “What happened last night? Mass murder? An armed romp? Perhaps …”
“Romp?” the inspector said blankly.
“A caper. A job! Perhaps they knocked off the National Treasury, uh?” He came to his feet, portraying more excitement than anyone had ever expected this staid looking scientist to project. He held his hands as though cradling a two-handed weapon. “Muffle guns,” he said. “Come driving up in fast hovercars. Leave a lookout outside. The rest go charging in, cutting down the guards …”
The inspector, stricken to silence, had closed his eyes in the Iberian expression of agony the Section G operatives were beginning to get used to.
It was Dobarganes who took over. He put a hand on the excited doctor’s arm. “Please, Senor Horsten, it was not that at all. Please be seated.” He got the good doctor into his chair and turned back to his superior. There was a strained element in his voice as well, by this time. “Senor Colonel?” he said.
The colonel had obviously decided to get it over with. He said, “The maids reported this morning that there was ash in your fireplace, as though papers had been burned there. It was, so far as we could analyze, paper of the type stolen last night. Undoubtedly, you have some explanation.” He added, sotto voce, “Some weird explanation.”
All except Helen looked blank. Helen was beginning to eye the colonel malevolently.
Martha said, “Why, why, I burned some papers last night. Heaven only knows why I ever brought them along when I packed.”
“Señora, this paper was of the type stolen last night. Our laboratories …”
Dr. Horsten had recovered from his enthusiasm. He grunted deprecation. “My dear Inspector Sorghum …”
“Segura,” Raul Dobarganes said quickly.
”… I suspect your paper manufacturers produce many of the types originated by Earth. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Lorans, among her other effects, brought an identical, or at least similar, paper along with her.”
The inspector was scowling.
The scientist went on, a certain impatience in his voice now. “Otherwise, you could always put the Señora under, ah, what is the term they use on the crime shows? Scop. Yes, Scop, truth serum, uh? Surely you will be able to, ah, dig out of her the method by which she sneaked from this fourth floor suite down through the hotel, captured these documents, or whatever, smuggled them back and then burnt them to hide the crime.” He looked at Martha. “My dear Mrs. Lorans, you have not seen enough Tri-Di spy tapes. You must chew up and swallow such secret papers.”
Martha’s face revealed that she didn’t understand what either of them were talking about.
The inspector gave up. He was wondering why he had bothered to come here when any of a hundred underlings could have checked the remote lead. He began making his preliminaries toward leaving. However, he reckoned without Helen.
She had evidently come to her decision and advanced on the quick to deal him a sharp kick on the shin. Startled, he bent to grab the leg assaulted.
She demanded in her childish treble, “What did you do to my Uncle Ferd? Did you go around arresting him, too? Don’t you dare hurt my Uncle Ferd.”
The inspector looked appealingly at his aide who came forward hurriedly to the rescue, however, Helen had already been snatched away by her mother.
“Don’t you dare arrest my Uncle Ferd!” Helen shrilled.
For a moment, the inspector thought he might have something. He snarled, “Who’s Uncle Ferd?”
His lieutenant cleared his throat. “Probably the technician for the corridas, Senor Colonel. He arrived on the same spaceships you’ll recall. Senor Zogbaum.”
“Oh, yes.’’ The colonel inspector straightened and did his gentlemanly best to smile at the child. “Your Uncle Ferd is very safe, little Senorita. He was in custody … ah, that is, he was guarded by friends all night, so he couldn’t possibly be involved, uh, that is, couldn’t be one of the gang of bad men. And now, Señora, Señores, little Senorita, forgive the Teniente and I for interrupting you. Hasta luego.”
He and his aide got out more speedily than protocol usually called for on Falange.
Back in the suite, Martha gestured upward at the bug.
Pierre Lorans took a pocketknife from his clothes and opened what would ordinarily have been the small blade, the end of which had been filed off to make a small screwdriver. He handed it to Helen.
Helen said, “Allez oop,” and in a moment duplicated her performance of the day before, poising for a long moment, partially supported by a tiny hand grasping the chandelier chain. The other hand darted out with the improvised screwdriver, loosened a screw slightly, then she fell over gracefully and back down into the arms of her partner.
Horsten tossed her high again, she gave the screw another turn. On the third attempt, she pulled loose a wire before dropping away.
She muttered with satisfaction, “I’ll bet whoever’s in charge of bugging is going slowly drivel-happy.”
Back in chairs, they looked around at each other.
Horsten looked at Martha. “You memorized the whole trial before burning it?”
“Of course I did,” Martha said.
“Why didn’t you flush away all the ashes?”
“Because to hide all signs of my burning some paper would have been practically impossible. By leaving a little ash, the fact of a considerable burning was hidden. My story held up.”
“I suppose so,” he said. “Some time today, Martha, it might be a good idea, while Pierre is busy with his colleague chefs, for you to go to a public library and memorize the Falange legal code. We might need it.”
Helen said thoughtfully, “And while you’re at it, all rules pertaining to the bullfights during this fantastic selection of their Caudillo.”
“I think you’re right,” Martha said. “I’ll do it.”
Horsten looked at the plumpish Lorans. “At the rate you’re going, they’ll shoot you, or kick you off the planet, even before they find you’re a Section G agent.”
Lorans grinned one of his rare grins, which gave him an impish quality. “No. I’m impressing them more by the minute. They wouldn’t dream of expelling such an obviously temperamental artist, until I have at least produced one complete repast! They recognize my type too well, not to understand it. At this point, they’re in awe. The present El Caudillo evidently considers himself a gourmet. Heads would roll if anything happened to me before he could get his undoubtedly rounded belly under a table provided by my art.”
Helen said, “ The problem now is how do we get these two underground fellas out of the deep freeze?”
Martha looked at her. “Deep freeze?”
“That Alcazar political prison.”
The doctor said unhappily, “And what do we do with them once we get them out? We don’t know where their friends may be, if they have friends. Very possibly they have no place to go to ground.”
Helen said, “Why not here?”
And at their reception of that, snarled, “I’m not as simple as all that. Today, Pierre goes out to buy some clothes suitable to Falange fashion. He buys several suits, including three that are semi-formal and very similar to the sort that the Posada waiters wear. Ready-made—he hasn’t time for tailoring. One suit will be slightly too large, one just right, one for a slimmer man. Most of these Falangists seem of average size. O.K., we liberate the two former companions of our Section G agent who was shot as a subversive, bring them here and dress them in Pierre’s suits. We should be able to get some sort of fit.
“We keep them around the suite. If the police come in, they walk out, with trays, or towels, or whatever. Who ever looks at a hotel waiter?”
Lorans said skeptically, “Suppose a real waiter comes in?” “There are four rooms, including the bath. We’ll shuffle them around from room to room, in closets, under beds. Maybe we’ll put over the idea that Martha doesn’t like maids to make her bed, or even clear her room. She wants to do it herself. Hotels have more eccentric guests than that. We can keep our refugees hidden in her room when the maids come in.’’
Lorans wiped a hand over his brow. “Talk about the Purloined Letter!”
Horsten said, “It’s a rather desperate expedient.”
Helen snapped, “All right, double-dome, think up something better.”
Lorans said, “How are we going to get out of here to raid the prison? And, if we do, how will we locate them? What were their names, Martha?”
Martha said, “Bartolomé Guerro and José Hoyos.” She looked thoughtful. “I could probably find some sort of prison plan in the National Library.”
“Hm-m-m,” the doctor said. “I wonder if at the same time you could find a plan of the power plant serving Nuevo Madrid.”
Helen looked at him speculatively. “I don’t trust you,” she said.
He beamed at her.
Colonel Segura, making his way with the use of an old-fashioned flashlight, covered the small room thoroughly. He was beginning to doubt, these days, the reports of his own senses. The place was a shambles.
Finally, Raul Dobarganes bringing up the rear, the colonel returned to where two of his plainclothesmen had the hotel electrician pinned to a chair.
The colonel inspector glowered down at that unfortunate. “You are under arrest,” he snapped, “and will probably be shot for sabotage of government property. The Posada is government operated by the Policía Secreta to keep an eye on aliens and other suspects, as you well know.”
The electrician groaned his misery and one of the plainclothesmen backhanded him across the mouth.
The colonel went on ominously. “You have one chance. Tell us the purpose of your crime and reveal all accomplices.”
The technician shook his head in mute denial and hopeless appeal for mercy.
The colonel, directing the beam of the electric torch full into the other’s face, said, “Every light in the building has been extinguished and every device dependent on electricity is disrupted. Why? What did you expect to accomplish?”
The other moaned his misery and the plainclothesman slapped him again.
The colonel sighed deeply. “Tell me your lie again … traitor.”
“I am not a traitor. I am no traitor …”
He received another stinging slap across the mouth.
“Senor Colonel, I swear by the United Temple, by the Holy Ultimate, it is exactly as I have told you. A strange, whirling something came in through the door. Even as it whirled, it moved slowly and in … in a half circle around the room. I was spellbound, hypnotized. In all my life, Senor Colonel, I have never seen such a strange thing. I was paralyzed. It came in through the door, went down the room, whirling, whirling, and then came back and …”
“And hit you on the back of the head, you fool.”
“Yes, Colonel,” the other said in misery.
“And when you finally awoke what …”
“When I awoke, the control room was a mess. Everything capable of being smashed was smashed. It could have been but moments, but when I awoke there was damage of an extent I would have thought would have taken hours.”
The colonel boiled inwardly in his frustration, directed the beam of his flashlight upward. ‘There. That device, up near the ceiling, whatever it is. You can hardly see it from here. A group of saboteurs desiring to smash that would have had to have a ladder. Are you suggesting they marched through the halls of this hotel carrying a ladder?”
“No, Senor Colonel,” the electrician moaned. “I don’t know …”
Another vicious slap.
The colonel snarled, “These whirling mysteries of yours are an attempt to hide the true facts. Something is going on here. You have accomplices. Several of them must have come here and joined with you to wreck your charge.”
“No … no …”
Another Policía Secreta underling came hurrying into the room. Raul Dobarganes met him and spoke briefly in a low whisper. The teniente approached his superior. The colonel looked up at him, impatiently.
Dobarganes said unhappily, ‘‘Senor Colonel, the electricity is now off all over the city. It is in darkness. Only the palace of El Caudillo, with its private power plant, has lights.”
The colonel stared at him, as though his lieutenant was an idiot. “A temporary power break.”
“No, Senor Colonel. From what this man says, there has been unprecedented sabotage of the power plant.”
“Are you insane! There are a hundred guards!”
“Yes, Senor Colonel.”
“Come along! Madre de Dios! the world goes mad!” The colonel stormed for the door.
Behind him, the electrician sighed in relief and, as though in reflex, the plainclothesman smashed him across the mouth again.
V
As they made their uncomfortable way across the open field, Lorans growled, “I suppose we should count our blessings. El Caudillo’s government concentrates practically everything here in Nuevo Madrid. Suppose this confounded political prison was all the way on the other side of the planet?”
