The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 410
No answer.
He knocked again, a little louder but not loud enough to arouse others nearby.
Silence answered him.
This was where James Mowry's hectic schooling paid off. Taking from his pocket a bunch of keys that looked quite ordinary but weren't, he set to work on the lock and had the door open within precisely thirty-five seconds. Speed was essential for the task—if anyone had chosen that time to enter the corridor, Mowry would have been caught red-handed.
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 careful onceover and spotted a gun lying atop a small filing cabinet. He checked it, found it loaded and stuck it in his pocket.
Next, 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 searching 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, Mowry 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, unremitting 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 toughs on the train had been quick to grovel: the major was a Kaitempi brass hat and as such outranked an army brigadier, or even a space-navy fleet leader.
This discovery upped the speed of Mowry's activity still further. From the pile of luggage in the back room he seized a small case, forced it open and 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 and 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.
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 Sallana lumbered in.
The major 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?" The major 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?"
Major Sallana took a step forward.
"Sit down!" ordered Mowry.
The other stopped but did not sit. He stood firm upon the carpet, his small, crafty eyes taking on a stubborn glint. "Put down that gun."
"Who?—Me?" asked Mowry.
"You don't know what you're doing," declared Sallana, conditioned by a lifetime of creating fear. "Because you don't know who I am. But when you do, you'll wish ..."
"As it 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 pleasure of it. Now sit down when I tell you."
Still, the major 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. 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 James Mowry's gun went br-r-r-up!, not loudly but effectively. For five or six seconds Major Sallana stood wearing a stupid expression; then he teetered, fell backward with a thud that shook the room, rolled onto his side. His thick legs gave a couple of spasmodic jerks, then went still.
Gently opening the door a few inches, Mowry gazed into the corridor. 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 and had a close look at it. Sallana 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 have liked to hammer, kick, or otherwise get out of him the answers to some cogent questions. 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 force 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 was to do a favor to Sirians and Terrans alike. For another, such a 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 frisked the body and got what he had coveted from the moment Sallana 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. The Secret Police were secret even among themselves, a habit of which others could take full advantage.
Mowry now returned his attention to the filing cabinet. Most of the material within it proved to be worthless, revealing nothing not already known to Terran Intelligence. But there were three files containing case histories of persons made to conform to the Kaitempi habit of hiding identities under code numbers. Evidently the major had abstracted them from local headquarters and taken them home to study at leisure.
Mowry scanned these papers rapidly. It soon became clear that the three unknowns were potential rivals of those already in power. The case histories said nothing to indicate whether their subjects were now living or dead. The implication was that their fate had yet to be decided; otherwise, it seemed hardly likely that Sallana would waste time on such documents. Anyway, the disappearance of these vital papers would irritate the powers that be, and possibly frighten a few of them.
So Mowry 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, but discovered nothing more worth taking. The last chore was to remove all clues capable of linking him with the existing situation.
With the case in one hand, and the gun in his pocket, Mowry paused in the doorway and looked back at the body. "Live long."
Major (Pigface) Sallana did not deign to reply. He reposed in silence, his pudgy 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 of rank, right to the top brackets. With any luck at all, it would give a few of them the galloping jitters.
LUCK HELD; James 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 travelers who sat around too long. True, if accosted he could show his documents or—strictly as a last resort—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 any of several cops. After a short time it pulled out again and 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 would not be pestered by a garrulous neighbor, or studied for the full length of the journey by someone with sharp eyes and a long memory.
One thing was certain: if Sallana's body were found within the next three or four hours, the resulting hullabaloo would spread fast enough and far enough to insure an 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 recognize stolen property when they found it.
Mowry dozed uneasily to the hypnotic thixim-tiddy-thram 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 eleven-twenty 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 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, there should be a 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. This 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 on. 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 James Mowry wasn't off the hook yet. Police at the station expected to see people carrying luggage any time of the day or night. Cops in the city streets were inclined to question the reason at such an hour.
That problem could be solved by the easy expedient of taking a taxi—only to create another problem. Taxis have to be driven, and the most taciturn of them could become positively gabby when questioned by the Kaitempi.
"You take anyone off the eleven-twenty 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 a way out of this predicament; Mowry took it by putting the case in a rented locker in the station and walking away. In theory, the case should be safe enough for one full Jaimecan day; in fact, there was a chance of its being discovered and used as bait.
On a world where nothing was sacrosanct, the Kaitempi had master keys to almost everything. They weren't above opening and searching every bank of lockers within a thousand miles of the scene of the crime, if 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, Mowry would 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 on 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 adopted Technique Number Seven—namely, a narrowing of the eyes, an outthrusting of the jaw, and a harshening of the voice. Once in a while Number Seven would be rewarded with a guilty look, or a hopelessly exaggerated expression of innocence. He was very good at it, having practiced 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 absent-mindedly messing around with walls and windows, would you?"
"No, I wouldn't," said Mowry, "because 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, they'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 Sallana's killing had been discovered and the resulting uproar had died down. Say in at least one month's time.
Reaching his apartment, James Mowry 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 per cent of the civilians get down on their knees and salaam. 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 close imitation even of that. Maybe they needed this card. Given the chance, maybe they'd arm every wasp with a mock-majorship in the Kaitempi.
For Mowry himself, to surrender the card 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.
Chapter Five
AT NOON, Mowry returned to the station cautiously, and stood around for twenty minutes, as if waiting to meet an incoming traveler. He kept careful watch in all directions while appearing 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 dead-pan hardness of officials; but these were solely interested in people coming through the barriers.
