Wasp

by Eric Frank Russell

  The crowd mooched reluctantly away. Mowry glanced back from the far corner, saw the manager emerge with a steaming bucket and get busy swabbing the notice. He grinned to himself, knowing that hot water was just the thing to release and activate the hydrofluoric base beneath the print.

  Continuing on his way, Mowry disposed of two more stickers where they’d best be seen and cause the most annoyance. It would take twenty minutes for water to free number fifty-six and at the end of that time he couldn’t resist returning to the scene. Going back on his tracks, he ambled past the shop.

  Sure enough the sticker had disappeared while in its place the same message was etched deeply and milkily in the glass. The cop and the manager were now arguing heatedly upon the sidewalk with half a dozen citizens gaping alternately at them and the window.

  As Mowry loped past the cop bawled, “I don’t care if the window is valued at two thousand guilders. You’ve got to board it up or replace the glass. One thing or the other and no half-measures.”

  But, officer—”

  “Do as you’re told. To exhibit subversive propaganda is a major offence whether intentional or not. There’s a war on!”

  Mowry wandered away, unnoticed, unsuspected, with eighteen stickers yet to be used before the day was through. By dusk he’d disposed of them all without mishap. He had also found himself a suitable hideaway.

  CHAPTER III

  At the hotel he stopped by the desk and spoke to the clerk. “This war, it makes things difficult. One can plan nothing with certainty.” He made the hand-splaying gesture that was the Sirian equivalent of a shrug. “I must leave tomorrow and may be away seven days. It is a great nuisance.”

  “You wish to cancel your room, Mr. Agavan?”

  “No. I reserved it for ten days and will pay for ten.” Dipping into his pocket he extracted a wad of guilders. “I shall then be able to claim it if I get back in time. If I don’t, well; that’ll be my hard luck.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Agavan.” Indifferent to the throwing away of good money so long as it was somebody else’s, the other scribbled a receipt, handed it over.

  “Thanks,” said Mowry. “Live long!”

  “May you live long.” He gave the response in dead tones, not caring if the customer expired on the spot.

  Mowry went to the restaurant and ate. Then to his room where he lay full length on the bed and gave his feet a much needed rest while he waited for darkness to become complete. When the last streamers of sunset had faded away he took another pack of stickers from his case, also a piece of crayon, and departed.

  The task was lots easier this time. Poor illumination helped cover his actions, he was now familiar, with the locality and the places most deserving of his attentions, he was not diverted by the need to find another and safer address. For more than four hours he could concentrate single-mindedly upon the job of defacing walls and making a mess of the largest, most expensive sheets of plate glass that daytimes were prominently in public view.

  Between seven-thirty and midnight he slapped exactly one hundred stickers on shops, offices and vehicles of the city transport system, also inscribed swiftly, clearly and in large size the letters D.A.G. upon twenty-four walls.

  The latter feat was performed with Terran crayon, a deceitfully chalk-like substance that made full use of the porosity of brick when water was applied. In other words, the more furiously it was washed the more stubbornly it became embedded. There was only one sure way of obliterating the offensive letters—to knock down the entire wall and rebuild it.

  In the morning he breakfasted, walked out with his case, ignored a line of waiting dynocars and caught a bus. He changed buses nine times, switching routes one way or the other and heading nowhere in particular. Five times he travelled without his case which reposed awhile in a rented locker. This tedious rigmarole may not have been necessary but there was no way of telling; it was his duty not only to avoid actual perils but also to anticipate hypothetical ones.

  Such as this: “Kaitempi check. Let me see the hotel register. H’m!—much the same as last time. Except for this Shir Agavan. Who is he, hi?”

  “A forestry surveyor.”

  “Did you get that from his identity-card?”

  “Yes, officer. It was quite in order.”

  “By whom is he employed?”

  “By the Ministry of Natural Resources.”

  “Was his card embossed with the Ministry’s stamp?”

  “I don’t remember. Maybe it was. I can’t say for sure.”

  “You should notice things like that. You know full well that you’ll be asked about them when the check is made.”

  “Sorry, officer, but I can’t see and remember every item that comes my way in a week.”

  “You could try harder. Oh. well, I suppose this Agavan character is all right. But maybe I’d better get confirmation if only to show I’m on the job. Give me your phone.” A call, a few questions, the phone slammed down, then in harsh tones, “The Ministry has no Shir Agavan upon its roll. The fellow is using a fake identity-card. When did he leave the hotel? Did he look agitated when he went? Did he say anything to indicate where he was going? Wake up, you fool, and answer! Give me the key to his room—it must be searched at once: Did he take a dynocar when he departed? Describe him to me as fully as you can. So he was carrying a case? What sort of a case,hi?”

  That was the kind of chance that must be taken when one holes up in known and regularly checked haunts. The risk was not enormous, in fact it was small—but it was still there. And when tried, sentenced and waiting for death it is no consolation to know that what came off was a hundred to one chance. To keep going and to maintain the one-man battle the enemy had to be outwitted, if possible, all along the line and all the time.

  Satisfied that by now the most persistent of snoops could not follow his tortuous trail through the city, Mowry retrieved his case, lugged it up to the third floor of a crummy tenement building, let himself into his suite of two sour-smelling rooms. The rest of the day he spent cleaning the place up and making it fit to live in.

  He’d be lots harder to trace here. The shifty-eyed landlord had not asked to see his identity-card, had accepted him without question as Gast Hurkin, a low-grade railroad official, honest, hard-working and stupid enough to pay his rent regularly and on time. To the landlord’s way of thinking the unsavoury neighbours rated a higher I.Q.—in terms of that environment—being able to get a crust with less effort and remaining tight-mouthed about how they did it.

  Housework finished, Mowry bought a paper, sought through it from front to back for some mention of yesterday’s activities, There wasn’t a word on the subject. At first he felt disappointed, then on further reflection he became heartened.

  Opposition to the war and open defiance of the government definitely made news that justified a front-page spread. No reporter, no editor would pass it up if he could help it. Therefore the papers had passed it up because they could not help it. They’d had no choice about the matter. Somebody high in authority had clamped down upon them with the heavy hand of censorship. Somebody with considerable power had been driven into making a weak countermove.

  That was a start, anyway. His first waspish buzzings had forced authority to interfere with the press. What’s more, the countermove was feeble and ineffective. It wouldn’t work. It was doomed to failure, serving only as a stopgap while they sat around and beat their brains for more decisive measures.

  The more persistently a government maintains silence on a given subject of discussion, the more the public talks about it, thinks about it. The longer and more stubborn the silence the guiltier it looks to the talkers and thinkers. In time of war the most morale-lowering question that can be asked is, “What are they hiding from us now?”

  Some hundreds of citizens would be asking themselves that same question tomorrow, the next day or the next week. The potent words Dirac Angestun Gesept would be on a multitude of lips, milling around in a like number of minds, merel
y because the powers-that-be were afraid to talk.

  And if a government fears to admit even the pettiest facts of war, how much faith can the common man place in the leadership’s claim not to be afraid of anything? Hi?

  A disease gains in menace when it spreads, popping up in places far apart and taking on the characteristics of an epidemic. For that reason Mowry’s first outing from his new abode was to Radine, a town two-forty miles south of Pertane. Population three hundred thousand, hydro-electric power, bauxite mines, aluminum extraction plants.

  He caught an early morning train. It was overcrowded with all those people compelled to move around by the various needs of war: sullen workers, bored soldiers, self-satisfied officials, colourless nonentities. The seat facing him was occupied by a heavy-bellied character with bloated, porcine features, a caricaturist’s idea of the Jaimec Minister of Food.

  The train set off, hit up a fast clip. People piled in and out at intermediate stations. Pigface contemptuously ignored Mowry, watched the passing landscape with lordly disdain, finally fell asleep and let his mouth hang open. He was twice as hoglike in his slumbers and would have attained near-perfection with a lemon between his teeth.

  Thirty miles from Radine the door from the coach ahead slammed open, a civilian policeman entered. He was accompanied by two burly, hard-faced characters in plain clothes. This trio halted by the nearest passenger.

  “Your ticket,” demanded the cop.

  The passenger handed it over, his expression scared. The policeman examined it front and back, passed it to his companions who studied it in turn.

  “Your identity-card.”

  That got the same treatment, the cop looking it over as if doing a routine chore, the other two surveying it more critically and with concealed suspicion.

  “Your movement permit.”

  It passed the triple scrutiny, was given back along with the ticket and identity-card. The recipient’s face showed vast relief, The cop picked on the passenger sitting next to him.

  “Your ticket,”

  Mowry, seated two-thirds the way along the coach, observed this performance with much curiosity and a little apprehension. His feelings boosted to alarm when they reached the seventh passenger.

  For some reason best known to themselves the tough-looking pair in plain clothes gazed longer and more intently at this one’s documents. Meanwhile, the passenger developed visible signs of agitation. They stared at his strained face, weighing him up. Their own features wore the hungry expressions of predatory animals about to tear down a victim.

  “Stand up!” barked one of them.

  The passenger shot to his feet and stood quivering. He swayed slightly and it was not due to the rocking of the train. While the cop looked on, the two frisked the passenger with speed and professional thoroughness. They took things out of his pockets, pawed them around, shoved them back. They patted his clothes all over, showing no respect for his person.

  Finding nothing of significance, one of them muttered an oath then yelled at the victim, “Well, what’s giving you the shakes?”

  “I don’t feel so good,” said the passenger, feebly.

  “Is that so? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Travel sickness. I always get this way in trains.”

  “It’s a story, anyway.” He glowered at the other, lost patience and made a careless gesture. “All right, you can sit”

  At that the passenger collapsed into his seat and breathed heavily. He had the mottled complexion of one almost sick from fear and relief. The cop eyed him a moment, let go a sniff and turned attention to number eight.

  “Ticket.”

  There were ten more to be chivvied before these inquisitors reached Mowry. He was willing to take a chance on his documents passing muster but he dared not risk a search. The cop was just a plain, ordinary cop. The other two were members of the all-powerful Kaitempi; if they dipped into his pockets the balloon would go up once and for all. And in due time, when on Terra it was realised that his silence was the silence of the grave, a cold-blooded specimen named Wolf would give with the sales talk to another sucker.

  “Turn around. Walk bow-legged. We want you to become a wasp.”

  By now most of the passengers were directing their full attention along the aisle, watching what was going on and meanwhile trying to ooze an aura of patriotic rectitude. Mowry slid a surreptitious look at Pigface who was still lolling opposite with head hanging on chest and mouth wide open. Were those sunken little eyes really closed or were they watching him between narrowed lids?

  Short of pushing his face right up against the other’s unpleasant countenance he couldn’t tell for certain. But it made no difference, the trio were edging nearer every moment and he had to take a risk. Furtively he felt behind him, found a tight but deep gap in the upholstery where the bottom of the backrest met the rear of the seat. Keeping his attention riveted upon Pigface, he edged a pack of stickers and two crayons out of his pocket, crammed them into the gap, poking them well out of sight. The sleeper opposite did not stir or blink an eyelid.

  Two minutes later the cop gave Pigface an irritable shove on the shoulder and that worthy woke up with a snort. He glared at the cop, then at the pair in plain clothes.

  “So! What is this?”

  “Your ticket,” said the cop.

  “A traffic check, hi?” responded Pigface; showing sudden understanding. “Oh, well—” Inserting fat fingers in a vest pocket he took out an ornate card embedded in a slice of transparent plastic. This he exhibited to the trio as if it were the equivalent of the keys to the kingdom. The cop stared at it and became servile. The two toughies stiffened like raw recruits caught dozing on parade.

  “Your pardon; Major,” apologised the cop.

  “It is granted,” assured Pigface, showing a well-practised mixture of arrogance and condescension. “You are only doing your duty.” He favoured the rest of the coach with a beam of triumph born of petty power, openly enjoying the situation and advertising himself as being several grades above common herd.

  Eyeing him with concealed dislike, Mowry became obsessed with the notion that some buttocks have been designed by Nature specifically to be kicked good and hard and that such a target was within foot-reach right now. His right shoe got the fidgets at the thought of it but he kept it firmly on the floor.

  Leery and embarrassed, the cop switched to Mowry, said, “Ticket.”

  Mowry handed it over, striving to look innocent and bored. Pseudo-nonchalance didn’t come easy because now he was the focal point of the coach’s battery of eyes. Almost all the other passengers were looking his way, Pigface was surveying him speculatively and the two Kaitempi agents were giving him the granite-hard stare.

  “Identity-card.”

  That got passed across.

  “Movement permit.”

  He surrendered it, braced himself for the half-expected command of, “Stand up!”

  It did not come. Anxious to get away from the fat Major’s cold, official gaze, the three examined the papers, handed them back without comment and moved on. Mowry shoved the documents into his pocket, tried to keep a great relief out of his voice ras he spoke to the other.

  “I wonder what they’re after.”

  “It is no business of yours,” said Pigface, as insultingly as possible.

  “No, of course not,” agreed Mowry.

  There was silence between them. Pigface sat mooning through the window and showed no inclination to resume his slumbers. Damn the fellow, thought Mowry, retrieving the hidden stickers was going to prove difficult with that slob awake and alert.

  A door crashed shut as the cop and Kaitempi agents finished with that coach and went through to the following one. A minute later the train pulled up with such suddenness that a couple of passengers were thrown from their seats. Outside the train and farther back toward the rear end voices started shouting.

  Heaving himself to his feet, Pigface opened the window’s top half, stuck his head out
and looked back toward the source of the noise. Then with speed surprising in one so cumbersome he whipped a gun from his pocket, ran along the aisle and through the end door. Outside the bawling grew louder.

  Mowry got up and had a look through the window. Near the tail of the train a small bunch of figures were running alongside the track, the cop and the Kaitempi slightly in the lead. As he watched, the latter swung up their right arms and several sharp cracks rang through the morning air. It was impossible to see at whom they were shooting.

  Also beside the train, gun in hand, Pigface was pounding heavily along in pursuit of the pursuers. Curious faces popped out of windows all along the line of coaches. Mowry called to the nearest face.

  “What happened?”

  “Those three came in to check papers. Some fellow saw them, made a wild dash to the opposite door and jumped out. They stopped the train and went after him.”

  “Was he hurt when he jumped?”

  “Not by the looks of it. Last I saw of him he was diminishing in the distance like a champion meika. He got a pretty. good start. They’ll be lucky to catch him.”

  “Who was he, anyway?”

  “No idea. Some wanted criminal, I suppose.”

  “Well,” offered Mowry; “if the Kaitempi came after me I’d hotfoot it like a scared Spakum.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” said the other.

  Withdrawing, Mowry took his seat. All the other travellers were at the windows, their full attention directed outside. This was an opportune moment. He dug a hand into the hiding-place, extracted the stickers and crayons, pocketed them.

  The train stayed put for half an hour during which there was no more excitement within hearing. Finally it jerked into motion and at the same time Pigface reappeared and dumped himself into his seat. His face was thunderous. He looked sour enough to pickle his own hams.

  “Did you catch him?” asked Mowry, lending his manner all the politeness and respect he could muster.

  Pigface bestowed a dirty look. “It is no business of yours.”