Space Gladiators, page 18
The colonel looked at the instrument again as though unbelieving but kept his peace.
His lieutenant went on. “The hunting and war boomerangs were different. They were meant to strike the game, or enemy, at a distance and with great accuracy and force.”
“You mean you simply threw the thing? Why should it be any more accurate than any other … well … club?”
“It twirls in the air.” The young aide demonstrated. “Going around and around like this. The way it’s twisted, the wood … it evidently acts as some sort of airfoil.”
“Let me see that damned thing,” the colonel snapped.
He stared down at it.
Finally he snapped, “Get me the customs report on the possessions brought in by Pierre Lorans and his family and by Dr. Horsten. Check back to make double sure that the inspection was as thorough as usual. I want to know if as much as a single toothpick could have gotten past undetected.”
“Yes, Colonel Segura.”
When the reports came, the colonel pored over them with a feeling of frustration. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Nevertheless, eventually he found it.
He stabbed with his finger, accusingly. “A box of toys.”
Raul Dobarganes looked blank.
“ What toys?” the colonel rasped.
“Why … why, a girl’s toys, I suppose,” his aide said. “Toys for that little girl, dolls and so forth.”
“Ha!” the colonel said. “Put a man in the Lorans’s suite at the first opportunity. When they are at dinner, or something. 1 want to know what’s in the box of supposed toys. Also check thoroughly on that confounded microphone that is continually breaking. And another thing, Raul. That electrician from the Posada. Have him in here. And that guard of the archives who had the fanciful story of a half dozen or more men descending upon him from the skies. Bring him here. And those hysterical guards from the Alcazar Prison. 1 want them, too. One the double, Raul!”
His assistant was interrupted for one last order. “And Raul.
You might get in touch with that Temple monk assigned to the task of exorcising the poltergeists at the city power plant. You can tell him it won’t be necessary.”
‘‘Yes, Colonel Segura,” Raul Dobarganes said, bewildered.
Colonel Inspector Miguel Segura bent a baleful eye on the night guard of the archives of the Policía Secreta. He said, infinite cold in his voice, “This time I want the real story of what happened that night the safe was robbed.”
“Senor Colonel …” There were blisters of cold sweat on the man’s forehead. If anything, he seemed more distraught than he had been the night of the crime. Evidently, he’d had time to think it over in detail and the thinking hadn’t reassured him. Which was interesting, the colonel decided.
The colonel said, “Your life is at stake. I want the truth.”
“Senor Colonel, I told the truth. Most of it is a mystery to me. They descended upon me from I know not where. Seemingly from the air. I was helpless, immediately.”
“How many of them did you say there were?”
The guard’s eyes darted, but there was no escape. “I … I don’t know, Senor Colonel.”
The colonel leaned forward. “Were there only two … or three?”
The blisters of sweat were such now that the man had to wipe them away desperately.
The colonel’s eyes shot suddenly to his lieutenant. “Put him to the question!” he rasped.
“No … no … !” the guard squealed.
“Torture him. I want every tiny detail of what really happened in that archives room.”
“Yes, Colonel,” Raul Dobarganes said unhappily. He didn’t like this phase of his work. He put his head out the office door and summoned four plainclothesmen.
“No … no …’’the victim was still squealing as they hauled him off.
The colonel’s mouth worked. “Now those prison wardens who allowed the subversives to escape. Bring them in. I want a rehash on that story, too.”
Martha Lorans looked out the window and said, “Oh, oh.”
“What’s the matter?” Helen said.
“Come here, quick. That line of men, crossing the park.”
Helen took one look, said, “Get Pierre,” and darted for the hall and the suite of Dorn Horsten.
She made it only halfway. Suddenly, from around a corner of the hotel corridor, two brawny Policía Secreta, both carrying pistols, grabbed her up.
Kicking and squealing, she was carried unceremoniously off.
Back in the Lorans apartment, Pierre entered from an inner room. “What’s the matter?”
Martha said hurriedly, “Pierre, armed men are closing in from all sides. It must be for us. Is there any last thing we can do? Are there any papers to burn or …”
“No, of course not. All our papers are in your head. Where’s Helen, Dorn …”
“She’s gone to get him. You think we can get out of here?”
“No. But we can try. Come on, Martha!”
He headed for the door, she immediately behind him.
It opened and they were confronted by Colonel Inspector Miguel Segura. Behind him were at least a dozen armed men.
“Ah,” the colonel said politely, “the Cordon Bleu chef who doesn’t appreciate the cuisine of Falange, eh? We shall see what you think of the food we serve the inmates of Alcazar Prison, especially those sentenced to be shot for illegal activities against the government of El Caudillo.”
There were sounds of a battle royal going on down the hall; great shouts, breaking of furniture, cries of agony.
The colonel turned coldly to one of his minions. “Take four more men with stun guns. A freak who can carry a six hundred pound safe down ten flights of stairs and then tear the door off, evidently with his bare hands, can take a lot of subduing. Be sure not to kill him.”
He turned back to the Lorans. “You will accompany me to the Policía Secreta headquarters for interrogation.”
Pierre Lorans said, “This is an outrage. I wish to inform the United Planets Embassy of my arrest, so that 1 can arrange for an attorney for my defense.”
Some police underling in the background chuckled at that.
The colonel said formally, “Pierre Lorans, you are unfamiliar with Falange legal procedure. The court will appoint an attorney to handle your defense.” “A Falange attorney?” Lorans snorted, drawing himself up in his Gallic stance. “I want a United Planets lawyer!”
Martha said lowly, “That’s their law, Pierre. The court appoints defense attorneys in cases involving subversion and espionage.”
They were marched into the hall where they were met by another delegation of Policía Secreta, these carrying a trussed up Helen. Still further along the hall came two more Guardia Civil, looking the worse for wear. They carried a stretcher and upon it, unconscious and breathing deeply, Dr. Dorn Horsten.
A service elevator took them down to street level, and they emerged into an alley behind the hotel. Police limousines awaited them there and they were whisked to the large gray, dominating Policía Secreta building which Helen and Horsten had penetrated so short a time ago, looking for the court records of the trial of the Section G agent.
They were hurried through passages, into a large gloomy interrogation room.
The others were pushed into chairs. The colonel eyed the now stirring Dr. Horsten. He said to his bully-boys, “Two of you station yourselves across the room with your guns trained on him. If he shows any belligerence at all, stun him again.”
The doctor, groaning from the aftermath of the blast he had received earlier, revived rather quickly, once the process had started. His bones felt as though he had suffered rheumatism and arthritis for a decade and more. He rubbed them painfully, even as he looked up.
He managed to get out, in indignation: “What is the meaning of this? You have a warrant for this outrage?”
“A technicality we dispense with on Falange, and as temporary residents, you come under our legal code. All our laws apply to you,” the colonel told him smoothly. “And now, just so as not to waste time, let me inform you that your trial will take place within the hour, and you will be shot this afternoon, at latest. Between then and now, you will be placed on Scop, truth serum, to reveal any accomplices you may have had in your vicious schemes.”
“Some trial that’s going to be, if you already know we’re going to be shot,” Helen said bitterly. She made no effort to maintain her childish treble.
The colonel looked at her and made a mocking bow. “I have not forgotten the kick you gave me, Senorita Lorans.” He afforded a light laugh. “Our investigations tell us that there is a whole planet of people such as yourself, though evidently you are one of the top gymnasts. A champion acrobat on a world that loves gymnastics. It explains a great deal of what would have seemed unexplainable.” He turned to the doctor. “And you, Dorn Horsten. We have a bit of information on your own home planet, ah, Ftörsta. It must be a strange world, indeed.”
The doctor said, “I’d like to get just two fingers around your neck.”
“I am sure you would. But time presses. The court is being set up for your brief trial. Immediately, we will resort to our Scop …”
Teniente Raul Dobarganes burst open the door and came in, his face ghost-pale.
“What in the name of the Holy Ultimate is wrong?” his superior growled.
Raul Dobarganes shook his head, as though to achieve clarity. “El Caudillo,” he whispered. “El Caudillo has been shot.”
VI
“Shot!” the colonel rasped.
“Dead. Shot dead. The parade in Almeria. The parade in honor of the glorious matadors who have fallen in the arena. The assassins were stationed all along the route of the parade. There must have been at least five of them in all. The fourth gunman got him. El Caudillo is dead.”
Horsten winced. He muttered, “I didn’t expect them to be so susceptible, when I told them that story.”
Helen looked at him, speculatively. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know,” he said defensively. “I suppose it doesn’t make much difference now.”
The colonel had sped from the room, roaring orders right and left.
Pierre Lorans found the courage to laugh. “Well, at least it will probably give us a respite for an hour or so.”
Martha said, “More than that.” Her eyes seemed to go empty and she recited, “Falange Legal Code, Article Three, Section Three. During the National Fiesta Brava and until the new Caudillo is confirmed, there are no criminals on the planet Falange. Each resident must be free to compete as a torero if such is his desire. ”
Horsten looked his astonishment. “You mean to say they open the prisons?”
“Evidently. It must be a madhouse.”
Helen growled, “Let’s get out of here and back to the hotel. Evidently, there’s nothing to stop us.” She looked over at Raul Dobaiganes. “Is there, cutey?”
He had been taking in their conversation, blankly. In actuality, the last National Fiesta Brava had been held while he was still so young that few of the details remained with him. All he could recall was the great excitement. Now, he was almost as confused as the Section G operatives by the sudden change in the situation.
However, he knew the law. He shook his head. “No. There is nothing to stop you. There are no criminals on Falange. But as soon as the new Caudillo has been selected, you will again be apprehended and your trial will take place.”
Helen winked at him. “Let’s go, folks.”
They stood on the balcony of the Lorans’s suite at the Posada San Francisco and looked glumly down at the merrymaking crowds.
“Look at those costumes,” Martha said. “You would have thought that it would take weeks to make some of them.” Horsten grunted. “They were out on the streets within half an hour of the flashing of the news of El Caudillo’s death.” Bartolomé Guerro was with them, his expression sour. “For some of them, it is the one real excitement of their lives. The world turns upside down. The peon is free to leave the finca and journey into town for the local corridas. If he has the wherewithal, he can even make the trip here to Nuevo Madrid for the finals. The poorest laborer, in costume in the fiestas, rubs shoulders with the wealthiest hidalgo; may steal a kiss, if he’s handsome enough, from a titled lady.”
Helen said, staring down at the mobs of dancing, running, laughing, drinking, milling Falangists, “This going on all over the planet?”
Guerro nodded. “Everywhere. There are few towns so small as not to have a bullring. It is the Falange equivalent of the
Roman circus, and serves the same purpose. So long as the people are completely caught up in the fiesta brava, they have little time to realize the inadequacies of the life they lead. And this is the fiesta of all fiestas. The National Fiesta Brava, seldom witnessed more than once or twice in a single man’s lifetime.” Horsten said, ‘‘And the elimination fights are taking place throughout the planet?”
“That is correct. Local toreros fight in their local arenas. The best is then sent to the county seat, where he competes with those others who have survived the local corridas. From hence, he goes to the nearest large city, and eventually here to Nuevo Madrid for the finals. Thousands of corridas are being held all over Falange at this very moment.”
Pierre Lorans said, “How is it decided who wins? It would seem to me that it could be rigged by the judges.”
The Falangist shook his head. “No, that is not where the rigging comes in. It is the crowd that decides, by popular acclaim, and no judge would dare go against it. If a torero fights well, he is awarded an ear, if he fights superlatively he will get two ears. If he triumphs, he gets two ears and a tail. On the rarest of occasions, he is awarded a hoof on top of all the rest.” Horsten was looking at him. “Where does the rigging come in?” he said. “I’ve wondered about this before. How can the ruling class take the chance that some peon, or other lower caste member, might win and upset the applecart?”
The other grunted deprecation. “Theoretically, it’s all fair. However, the sons of the elite finca owners begin playing with fighting bulls when they are two or three years old—and the bulls one or two days old. By the time they’re ten, instructed by the most competent veterans of the arena, they fight calves. By the time they’re twelve, they are fighting small bulls at tientas the testing of the young bulls. At about the same time they are allowed to kill steers at the ranch slaughterhouse, literally by the hundreds, learning every trick of the game. Ah, believe me, my friends, by the time our young hidalgo is sixteen he knows just about everything there is to know about the Bos taurus ibericus and the fiesta brava.”
The Section G agents had been interested. Lorans said, “Any other way they have of getting an advantage?”
Guerro made his very Iberian shrug. “Well, the matador’s cuadrillas; his assistants: picadors, banderilleros, and peons.
They have a double purpose: one, to come to his rescue when he’s in trouble; and, two, to make him look good in there. If a man can afford the most expensive cuadrilla that it is possible to hire, then he has a big advantage. On the face of it, one of Falange’s ruling elite can so afford, and some youngster up from the slums hasn’t got a chance of acquiring top assistants.”
Helen said suddenly, “How’s José Hoyos doing?”
Guerro pulled a great gust of air down into his lungs. “He is doing … adequately. The crowds call him Joseíto and he is still Numero Tres. Number One and Number Two, hidalgos named Perico and Carlitos by their fans, have been shifting back and forth as favorites, but Joseíto has consistently remained third in popularity. None of these top three has had a serious goring yet, they’ve all been lucky.”
“Third place, eh? How about his, what did you call it, his assistants?” Horsten said.
“His cuadrilla? Top men. All members of the Lorca Party, all professional toreros. They’re nearly as good as those of either Numero Uno, or Numero Dos. ” There was a shine in the gaunt man’s eyes. “For once, we have possibly an even chance. For once, one of ours will at least participate in the finals. If he could only make it! El Caudillo! One of our party!”
The sounds of the mob dancing in the streets wafted up to them.
Helen said, “Is it going to be possible for us to watch the final fights?”
“Why not? It is simply a matter of being willing to pay enough for tickets. People have been known to sell their homes, beggar themselves, to buy a ticket for the final corrida. The arena sits but fifty thousand, and all Falange would like to attend. However, I imagine with United Planets resources behind you …”
Martha said grimly, “We have to be there to cheer on Joseíto. If he wins, we’ve got it made, mission accomplished and everything. If he loses, Colonel Segura will have us back in the Alcazar before we can blink.”
Guerro looked at her, frowning. “Couldn’t you make a run for it now?” He looked round at the others.
Horsten grunted. “Run to where? They certainly aren’t going to let us get aboard a spaceship, even if there were one available, and there isn’t.”
Whatever the moral implications of the fiesta brava, either in the old days in Spain and Mexico, or on the planet Falange, a colorful spectacle beyond compare it most certainly is.
Fifty thousand persons packed the seats, and another ten, perhaps, stood in the rear and in the aisles. All dressed in their most colorful best. All brimming with excitement. The bands blared out the “Diana,” hawkers took beer, soft drinks, nuts and other edibles through the crowd, friends screamed greetings at each other over the heads of intervening hundreds. Fans and handkerchiefs fluttered. Masculine aficionados cheered each time a youthful senorita found it necessary to hike full skirts a fraction in order to climb over stone seats, seeking her own reserved space.
