Space Gladiators, page 17
Helen said, “I still don’t know how we’re going to locate them.” She was perched up on Dorn Horsten’s shoulder, as always when time had to be made.
Horsten said. “If we have this right, they keep their prime state prisoners in the left wing. Martha memorized it at the library.”
Helen said, “Great, but there might be a thousand of them.” The doctor half stumbled over an unseen obstacle, caught himself and said, “No. Contrary to belief, police states don’t necessarily have their prisons chock full. The worst political prisoners they shoot, the least dangerous they send off to slave labor projects. Why feed them in prison? Put them to work. Those in between are kept in jail until they decide if they belong to the first category, or the second.”
They had come to a wall. Pierre Lorans took a rope he had been carrying and handed it to Helen. She wrapped it about her tiny waist and turned to Horsten and said, “Allez oop!”
He caught her, whirled her, released her. She shot upward.
Lorans growled, “I wish I hadn’t lost my boomerang, back there at the power station. What’ll they think when they find it?”
“They won’t,” Horsten grunted, peering upward after his diminutive partner. “Until you showed me that confounded thing, I’d never even heard of a boomerang, and I still don’t quite believe the things you can do with it. There’s no reason to believe they’ve ever heard of them, either.”
Lorans complained. “It was my favorite little tool. And one of the few we could take a chance on and bring along—in Helen’s box of toys, of course. What’s taking that girl so long?”
At that very moment, the end of the rope slithered down.
Without further word, Dr. Horsten gave it a sharp tug or two, to make sure Helen had it well anchored, shoved his glasses firmly back on his nose, and then started up, hand over hand, his feet braced against the prison wall.
A few minutes later, the end of the rope jerked up and down, in signal. Lorans took it and tied a loop in the end and put one foot inside. He gave a sharp double tug and was drawn upward to where the others awaited him on the wall top.
It was pitch dark.
Horsten whispered. “All right, let’s go. We’ve seen a few prison guards going about below with improvised lights. Evidently, the place is in a tizzy.”
Helen whispered, “Down this way, according to that chart Martha drew for us. The left wing is down this way.”
They came tq a barred door.
Horsten came to the front and inspected it. “The best thing,” he murmured, even as his big hands went out, “is simply to break the”—he grasped two of the heavy bars near the lock and suddenly pulled them toward him—“lock.” With a rip of tortured metal, the door came open toward him.
“How about alarms?”
“Don’t be silly,” Helen told him. “What do you think we fouled up that power plant for? Now let me go ahead and scout this out.”
The two men pressed back against a wall while she reconnoitered. She took longer to return than they found reasonable, so when she did show, both felt relief. She was breathing deeply.
“What happened?” Lorans demanded.
“I ran into two guards and had to clobber them.”
The doctor looked down at her tiny figure and shook his head. “I’ll never get used to it,” he muttered under his breath.
Helen said, “I found out where they are.”
“Where who are?”
“Don’t be dense. Our boys. Hoyos and Guerro.”
The two men stared at her. “How’d you find that out?” Lorans said.
“Oh, one of the two guards,” Helen said lightly. “Down this way.”
“Just a minute. What did you do to the guard? I want to know what’s behind me.”
She tried to brush it off. “I just kind of twisted his arm a little.”
For a brief moment, Dr. Horsten had before his eyes the picture of this seemingly sweet little girl putting strongarm methods to work on a tough, burly prison guard until the other divulged information.
He said, “You mean you let him see you, clearly?”
Helen shrugged it off. “So what? You think he’s going to report to his chief that an eight-year-old girl put the slug on him?”
They followed her. From time to time, through windows overlooking the prison yard below they could see guards, or other prison employees, going this way and that with lanterns, flashlights or torches. Civilized institutions fall apart drastically without power.
Helen whispered, “This way, I think.”
Back at the hotel, they returned to the Lorans suite by much the same manner as they had scaled the prison wall. But this time there were an extra two members in the party.
After Horsten had made it up the wall, he hauled the others after him, one, two, three. Helen, of course, had gone first, propelled by her hefty partner.
Martha was there, ready with a drink all around.
Pierre Lorans said to her, “Anything while we were gone?”
“No. Not so much as a knock on the door.”
Lorans turned to the two newcomers. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll get some new clothes on you. Later, either the doctor or I will take those you’re wearing and dispose of them.’’ He led the continually surprised Falangist underground men to his bedroom.
Meanwhile, Dorn Horsten opened the door to the hall and bellowed out into the darkness. “Hollo! Confound it, how long, is this fantastic situation going to last! We want lights, food, something to drink! Hollo!’’
Eventually, a hotel servant bearing a heavy candle came scurrying and the scientist made a big to-do about sitting around in the dark for the past couple of hours, and that they demanded some service.
The servant scurried off again. He gave the impression of having been doing a lot of scurrying all evening.
The doctor gave a grunt of satisfaction and turned back to Martha and Helen. “It’ll never occur to anybody that we haven’t been here all evening,” he said.
“We hope,” Helen muttered.
Lorans returned with the two liberated prisoners and the next fifteen minutes were expended explaining to the revolutionaries the purpose of the Lorans-Horsten team and the scheme to keep the two safely hidden by their remaining out in the open, disguised as waiters.
The older of the two, Bartolomé Guerro, was quite tall, all but gaunt, dark of complexion, inclined to flare in his speech. He was obviously a leader of men. The other, to the surprise of the Section G operatives, was a youngster, certainly not beyond his early twenties. Of medium height, he moved with a litheness seldom found in men and he seemed incapable of making an awkward movement.
It came out in moments. Jose Hoyos, full matador at the age of eighteen, had been the last, despairing hope of the Lorca Party, an illegal underground organization dedicated to the overthrow of the entire El Caudillo system. Even before the coming of the Section G operative who had worked with them, they had sought out this potential champion from the ranks of the organization. José was a third-generation son of a family devoted to the building of a new world-government to supersede the present system on Falange. His reflexes were fast, his appearance strikingly handsome, his grace, superlative. Helen could hardly keep her eyes off him.
They had groomed him for the next series of national games, when the old Caudillo had died and a new one was to be selected. The idea was to have him acclaimed El Caudillo and then to make sweeping changes from within. They had gathered funds to see him through the best of the planet’s bullfighting schools. They had gone to the expense of advancing his career through the novillero years, when as an amateur it was so difficult for the usual torero to find fights, it often being necessary that the young hopeful buy his own bull.
They had backed his career for years, waiting, waiting. And step by step José Hoyos had reached prominence, until in the opinion of most aficionados, he was Numero Tres, third man from the top in the lists of matadors. The two above him were gentlemen toreros, both at least ten years his senior and both the epitome of the hero of the fiesta brava, national spectacle of the planet Falange.
They had arrived at a position of having only to wait for the demise of the present Caudillo, for José to have his chance. Needless to say, El Caudillo was in no hurry.
The lean Bartolomé Guerro looked around at the Section G operatives. “It was then your colleague, Phil Birdman, came to Falange and stressed the importance of dispatch. He couldn’t wait for the Caudillo’s natural death.”
Martha said, “You mean he favored assassination?” There was discomfort in her voice.
The Falangist looked at her. “Not necessarily. It would be impossible to assassinate El Caudillo. His security is simply too embracing. Birdman was trying to find some other method of speeding things.”
Horsten shook his head. They were talking now by the light of a small fire Lorans had built in the fireplace.
“Any public figure can be assassinated, given a determined enough group, with adequate resources.”
The youthful Hoyos, usually silent, spoke up. “Not El Caudillo,” he said. “His police are thick as soup.”
The doctor grunted. “Of course, I don’t advocate political assassinations,” he said, “but listen to this one. Some centuries ago on Earth a desperate radical political group decided it was necessary to kill a titled foreigner who was to have a parade in their city. Troops and police, they knew, would be present in literally tens of thousands. So twenty-five of their number gathered in a room and drew straws and the five who had the shortest were given bombs or pistols and were told where to spot themselves along the path of the parade. Then they left. Those twenty remaining drew straws. The five with the shortest were given pistols and instructed to place themselves behind the appointed assassins, in the crowd. If, when it came the turn of one of the assassins to make his try at the victim, he failed to try, then the man stationed behind him was to shoot him. Those five then left and the remaining men drew straws and the five with the shortest were given pistols and instructed to stand behind the second man. If the first man failed to make his try, and the second man failed to shoot the first man, then it was the task of the third to shoot the second. These five left and straws were chosen again. The five short ones were issued pistols and instructed to stand behind the third man in the crowd, if the first man failed to make his try and the second man failed to shoot him and the third man failed to shoot the second, then the fourth man’s task was to shoot the third. The five remaining men need, of course, draw no straws. They issued themselves guns and left to assume their posts—behind the fourth man.”
The doctor let his eyes go around the group. “Next day, the parade started on schedule. The automobile containing the titled victim and his wife reached the first assassin who attempted to throw his bomb but was caught. The police then reached the second assassin who tried to shoot them with his pistol, but was pulled down by the surrounding mob. They reached the third assassin—and got no further.”
Horsten held his peace for a moment, and then said, “The assassins claimed their victim, but they didn’t know what the cost was to be. His name was Archduke Ferdinand and his death precipitated the first of the World Wars.”
Bartolomé Guerro thought about it. Finally he said, “Why do you tell us this?”
The scientist shrugged. “Merely pointing out that dedicated men can do what must be done. Your problem here, of course, is different.”
“Yes, of course.” The Falange revolutionist stirred in his chair. “José and I must get out and reestablish our contacts, get in touch with the cells of our Nuevo Madrid organization. Our arrest caused considerable disruption of long-laid plans.” Horsten said, ‘‘One thing. Our central offices have decided that the government of El Caudillo stands in the way of progress, but there is no point in tearing down one socioeconomic system if a superior one is not available to take its place. What is your own philosophy of government, Señor Guerro?”
The gaunt man took his time. Finally, he said, ‘‘Government should be by the elite, nothing else makes sense. Who wishes to be led by someone competent only to bring up the rear? But each generation must find its own elite. They are not automatically the children of the last generation’s, nor are they necessarily to be found among those with titles, great traditions behind them, nor accumulated wealth.”
Both Horsten and Lorans were nodding basic agreement. The doctor said, ‘‘And your method of selecting your governing elite?”
The Falangist looked full into his eyes and said very slowly, ‘‘This is an internal problem of our world. We will solve it based on local conditions, needs, traditions—all the factors that make Falange unique.” His voice went slower still. “We do not need the assistance of even friends from worlds beyond, where our institutions are not fully understood. We thank you for your assistance in destroying the corrupt government of El Caudillo, but we must insist on being the engineers of our future.” “Damn well put,” Helen said.
“And now we must go,” Guerro said.
Martha said worriedly, “You’ll be safe? We planned to keep you here for the time.”
Guerro and Hoyos came to their feet. “We’ll be as safe as can be expected,” Guerro said. “Your group will be here?”
“Yes,” Horsten said. “Our cover is excellent. When your people have come to some plan of action, let us know. Meanwhile, we shall put our own minds to the situation.”
Jos6 Hoyos was looking down at Helen speculatively. There was an element of apology in his voice when he said, “How old are you truly?”
Helen said snappishly, “That is a question no man should ever ask a woman.”
He looked down at her again, taking in the little girl’s dress, sprinkled with wild flowers, at the blond hair caught up in its ribbon. He shook his head.
“You want to Indian wrestle?” she snarled.
“I beg your pardon?” The good-looking torero was confused.
“Leave him alone, Helen,” Martha said.
“I’ll clobber him,” Helen muttered under her breath. “How long am I supposed to go between dates in this damned Section G! I’m a normal young woman.”
They saw the two Falangist citizens to the door, the doctor checking the hall up and down, before letting them go.
“Holy Jumping Zen,” Helen said, “but he’s beautiful. You should have seen his eyes pop when I wiggled through the bars of his cell.”
Colonel inspector Segura did what little there was in his power to make his voice soothing. He was seated in the gray drabness of his office, his heavy Castilian style desk a litter of papers and reports, a heavy military revolver used as a paperweight to hold down a pile to his right.
He said now, “No loyal ciudadano need fear the officials of El Caudillo’s government. They need only tell the truth and receive the acclaim of El Caudillo’s faithful servants.”
The man before him him squirmed. In his time, the other had run afoul of El Caudillo’s so-called faithful servants before. Never seriously, though any contact at all with the Policía Secret a was serious enough. But he had never dreamed—save possibly in nightmare—that he would ever confront Miguel Segura himself. One heard stories of Miguel Segura.
“Now,” the colonel inspector said in heavy gentleness, “just what was it you saw?”
“Senor Colonel, I was taking a walk through the park …”
“So I understand. At perhaps two o’clock in the morning.”
The other squirmed again. “Senor Colonel, I can explain. My wife and I …”
Segura held up an impatient hand. “Iam not at present interested in why a supposedly honest ciudadano might And fit to prowl the streets in the dead of night. Get to your story.”
“Senor Colonel, it is unbelievable.”
The colonel was beginning to lose patience. “There have been many unbelievable things happening in this city, recently. Quick now!”
“Senor Colonel, your excellency. I was not drunk.”
“Your story!” the colonel roared.
The other faltered, took a deep breath. “Senor Colonel, I saw a man walk up the side of the Posada San Francisco.”
“You saw what!”
“Senor Colonel, I was not drunk. I insist. When I told my wife, she told a neighbor. Soon it had spread throughout the block and the Guardia Civil came to question me, as they always come if there is the slightest deviation from everyday routine.” “All right. What do you mean, you saw a man walk up the side of the Posada? You mean he was climbing up the side of the hotel, do you not?”
“Senor Colonel, it was at a distance, one admits. It was none too clear. But it was a man, and he was not climbing. Not in the ordinary sense. He was walking up the wall. He got to the fourth, or perhaps the fifth floor and then disappeared.” “Disappeared? You mean he went into a window?” “Perhaps. For me, he simply disappeared.”
The colonel stared at the other for a long unprofitable minute. He said finally, “Could it have been that he had a rope suspended from the window and was climbing it, walking up the wall holding onto such a rope?”
“Perhaps, Colonel. It was at a distance, as one has said.” “Get out,” the colonel said. “Leave your complete story with the secretary outside. And now get out.”
After his informant had left, the colonel inspector sat for a long time, staring unseeingly into a far corner of the office. A light flashed on his desk. He pressed a button.
Teniente Raul Dobarganes entered, a curved piece of wood in hand. The thing might have been a yard in length in all, it might have been a club, but, if so, an unlikely looking one.
Segura growled a sour welcome, then, “Well?”
“It is a boomerang.”
The colonel looked at him.
Raul Dobarganes cleared his throat. “A weapon of the Australian Aborigines.”
“What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is an Australian whatever-you-said? ’ ’
“A very primitive people of Earth. Evidently, according to my historical informant, the device also showed up on other parts of Terra. They were found in Egyptian tombs. One form of the boomerang was more a toy than anything else. You threw it and it made a large circle out into the air and then returned to you.”
