What followed proved yet again that not one person in ten uses his eyes. Within short time thirty people had passed close by the gun without seeing it. Six of these walked within a few inches of it, one actually stepped over it.
Finally someone spotted it. He was a shrivel-chested, spindly-legged youth with splotches of darker purple on his face. Halting by the gun, he stared at it, bent over for a closer look but did not touch it. Then he glanced hurriedly and, failed to see the watching Mowry who had retreated farther into the doorway. Again he bent toward the gun, put out a hand as if to grab it. At the last moment he changed his mind, hastened away. He crossed right in front of Mowry, his face wearing wearing a mixture of frustrated cupidity and fear.
“Wanted it but too. scared to take it,” Mowry decided.
Twenty more pedestrians passed. Of these, two noticed the gun and pretended they’d not seen it. Neither came back to claim it when nobody was near. Probably they viewed the weapon as dangerous evidence that someone had seen fit to dump—and they weren’t going to be chumps enough to be caught with it. The one who eventually confiscated it was an artist in his own right.
This character, a heavily built individual with hanging jowls and a rolling gait, went by the gun and noted its existence without batting an eyelid or changing pace. Continuing onward, he stopped at the next corner fifty yards away, looked around with the air of a stranger uncertain of his whereabouts, dug a notebook from his pocket and put on a great play of consulting it. All the time his sharp little eyes were darting this way and that but failed to find the watcher in the doorway.
After a while he retraced his steps, crossed the vacant lot, dropped the notebook on top of the gun, scooped up both in one swift snatch and ambled casually onward. The way the book remained prominently in his hand while the gun disappeared was a wonder to behold.
Letting the, fellow get a good lead, Mowry emerged from the doorway and followed. He hoped the other had only a short way to go. This, obviously, was a smart customer likely to notice and throw off a shadower if chased too long. He didn’t want to lose him after the trouble he’d taken to find a willing gun-grabber.
Floppy Jowls continued along the road, turned right into a narrower and dirtier street, headed over a crossroad, turned left. At no time did he behave suspiciously, take evasive tactics or show any awareness of being followed.
Near the end of the street he entered a cheap restaurant with dusty windows and a cracked, unreadable sign above it door. A few moments later Mowry mooched past, gave the place a swift once-over. It had an ominous look about it, a typical rat-hole where underworld characters took refuge from the sunshine while they waited for the night. But. nothing ventured, nothing gained. Boldly he shoved open the door and walked in.
The place stank of unwashed bodies, stale food and drippings of zith. Behind the bar a sallow-faced attendant eyed him with the hostile expression reserved for any and every unfamiliar face. A dozen customers sat in the half-light by the stained and paintless wall and glowered at him on general principles. They looked a choice bunch of apaches.
Mowry leaned on the bar and spoke to Sallow Face, making his tones sound tough. “I’ll have a mug of coffee.”
“Coffee?” The other jumped as if rammed with a needle. “Blood of Jaime, that’s a Spakum drink.”
“Yar,” said Mowry. “I want to spit it all over the floor.” He let go a harsh, grating laugh. “Wake up and give me a zith.”
The attendant scowled, snatched a none too clean glassite mug from a shelf, pumped it full of low-grade zith and slid it across. “Six-tenths.”
Paying him, Mowry took the drink across to a small table in the darkest corner, a dozen pairs of eyes following his every move. He sat down, looked idly around and ignored the grim silence. His manner was that of one thoroughly at home when slumming. His questing gaze found Floppy Jowls just as that worthy left his seat, came across mug in hand and joined him at the table.
The latter’s move in apparently welcoming the newcomer caused a sudden relaxation in the place. Tension disappeared, toughies lost interest in Mowry, the bar attendant lounged back, general conversation was resumed. That showed Floppy Jowls was sufficiently well-known among the hard-faced clientele for them to take on trust anyone known to him.
Meanwhile, he had squatted face to face with Mowry and introduced himself with, “My name is Arhava, Butin Arhava.” He paused, waiting for a response that did not come; then went on, “You’re a stranger. From Diracta. Specifically from Masham. I can tell by your accent.”
“Clever of you,” Mowry encouraged.
“One has to be clever to get by. The stupid don’t. They choke in a rope.” He took a swig of zith. “You wouldn’t walk into this place unless you were a genuine stranger—or one of the Kaitempi.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t think so. And the Kaitempi wouldn’t dare send just one man in here. They’d send six. Maybe more. The Kaitempi would expect trouble aplenty in the Cafe Susun.”
“That,” said Mowry, “suits me very well.”
“It suits me even better.” Butin Arhava showed the snout of Pigface’s gun pver the edge of the table. It was pointed straight at the other’s middle. “I do not like being followed. If this gun went off nobody in here would give a damn. You wouldn’t worry either, not for long. So you’d better talk. Why have you been following me, hi?”
“You knew I was behind you all the time?”
“I did. What’s the big idea?”
“You’ll hardly believe it when I tell you.” Leaning across the table, Mowry grinned straight into his scowling face. “I want to give you a thousand guilders.”
“That’s nice,” said Arhava, unimpressed. “That’s very nice.” His eyes narrowed. “And you’re all set to reach into your pocket and give it me, hi?”
Mowry nodded, still grinning. “Yes—unless you’re so lily-livered that you prefer to reach into it yourself.”
“You won’t bait me that way,” retorted Arhava. “I’ve got control of the situation and I’m keeping it, see? Now get busy dipping—but if what comes out of that pocket is a gun it’s you and not me who’ll be at the wrong end of the bang. Go ahead and dip. I’m watching.”
With the weapon steadily aimed at him over the table’s rim, Mowry felt in his right-hand pocket, drew out a neat wad of twenty-guilder notes, poked them across. “There you are. They’re all yours.”
For a moment Arhava gaped with complete incredulity, then he made a swift pass and the notes vanished. The gun also disappeared. He lay back in his seat and studied Mowry with a mixture of bafflement and suspicion. “Now show the string.”
“No string,” Mowry assured. “Just a gift from an admirer.”
“Meaning who?”
“Me.”
“But you don’t know me from the Statue of Jaime.”
“I hope to,” said Mowry. “I hope to know you well enough to convince you of something mightily important”
“And what is that?”
“There’s lots more money where that came from.”
“Is that so?” Arhava gave a knowing smirk. “Well, where did it come from?”
“I just told you—an admirer.”
“Don’t give me that.
“All right. The conversation is over. It’s been nice knowing you. Now get back to your own seat”
“Don’t be silly.” Licking his lips, Arhava glanced cautiously around the room, reduced his voice almost to a whisper. “How much?”
“Twenty thousand guilders.”
The other fanned his hands as if beating off an annoying fly. “Sh-h-h! Don’t say it so loud!” Another leery look around the room. “Did you actually say twenty thousand?”
“Yar.”
Arhava took a deep breath. “Who d’you want killed?”
“One—for a start.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve just given you a thousand guilders and that’s not funny. Besides, you can put the matt
er to the test. Cut a throat and collect it’s as easy as that.”
“Just for a start, you said?”
“I did. By that is meant that if I like your work I’ll offer further employment. I’ve got a list of names and will pay twenty thousand per body.” Watching him for effect, Mowry put a note of warning into his voice. “The Kaitempi will reward you with ten thousand for delivering me into their hands. That’s money for the taking and with no risk attached. But to get it you’ll have to sacrifice all chance at a far bigger sum, maybe a million or more.” He paused, finished with pointed sarcasm, “One does not flood one’s own goldmine, does one?”
“Nar, not unless one is cracked.” Arhava became slightly unnerved as his thoughts milled around. “And what makes you think I’m a professional killer?”
“I don’t think anything of the sort. But I know you’re a shady character, probably with a police record, otherwise you wouldn’t have swiped that gun and neither would you dive into a crummy joint like this. That means you’re just the type who’ll do some dirty work for me or, alternatively, can intro-duce me to someone who is willing to do it. Personally, I don’t care a hoot who performs the task, you or your Uncle Smatsy. I reek of money. You love the scent of it. If you want to go on, sniffing it you’ve got to do something about it.”
Arhava nodded slowly, stuck a hand in his pocket and fondled the thousand guilders. There was a queer fire in his eyes. “I don’t do that kind of work, it’s not quite in my line. And it needs more than one, but—”
“But what?”
“Not saying. I’ve got to have time to think this over. I want to discuss it with a couple of friends.”
Mowry stood up. “I’ll give you four days to find them and chew the fat. By then you’d better have made up your mind one way or the other. I’ll be here again in four days time at this hour.” Then he gave the other a light but imperative shove in the shoulder. “I don’t like being followed either. Lay off if you want to grow old and get rich.”
With that; he departed: Arhava remained obediently seated and gazed dreamily at the door. After a time he called for another zith. His voice was strangely hoarse.
The barman dumped the drink at his elbow, said with no great interest, “Friend of yours, Butin?”
“Yar Datham Hain.”
Datham Hain being the Sirian version of Santa Claus.
CHAPTER V
In the early morning Mowry went to another and different agency, rented a dynocar under the name of Morfid Payth with an address in Radine. He couldn’t risk using the same agency twice in succession; it was highly likely that already the police had visited the first one and asked pointed questions. There they’d recognise him as the subject of official investigation, detain him on some pretext while they used the telephone.
He drove out the town carefully, with circumspection, not wanting to draw the attention of any patrol-cars lurking around. Eventually he reached the tree with the abnormal branch formation and the mock-tombstone beneath it. For a few minutes he stopped nearby pretending to tinker with the dynamo until the road became completely clear of traffic in both directions. Then swiftly he drove the car over the grass verge and in between the trees for as far as he could get it.
After that he went back on foot and satisfied himself that it could not be seen from the road. With his feet he scuffed the grass and thus concealed the tyre-tracks entering the forest. That done, he headed for the distant cave, moving as fast as he could make it.
He got there in the late afternoon. When still deep among the trees and eight hundred yards from his destination the ornamental ring on the middle finger of his left hand started tingling. The sensation grew progressively stronger as he neared. This caused him to make a straight and confident approach with no preliminary skirmishing around. The ring would not have tingled if Container-22 had ceased to radiate and that would happen only on the breaking of its beam by the invasion of the cave by something man-sized.
Yes, if accidentally or otherwise the enemy had found the hidden dump and made a trap of it, the quarry would have faded away with a half-mile running start. And they’d have been left to sit on their butts and wait for him who never arrives.
Also in the cave was something more spectacular than an invisible warning system. Probably the discoverers’ curiosity would have got the better of them and they’d start prying open the stacked duralumin cylinders including Container-30. When they interfered with that one the resulting bang would be heard and felt in faraway Pertane.
Once in the cave he opened Container-2, got busy while daylight lasted and treated himself to a real Earth-meal concocted of real Earth-food. He was far from being a guzzle-guts but shared with exiles a delight in the flavours of home. A small can of pineapple seemed like a taste of heaven, he lingered over every drop of juice and made it last twenty minutes. The feed gave quite a lift to his morale, made the growing forces out there among the stars seem not so far away.
Upon the fall of darkness he rolled Container-5 out the cave’s mouth, upended it on the tiny beach. It was now a tall silver-gray cylinder pointed at the stars. From its side he unclipped a small handle, stuck it into a hole in the slight blister near the base, wound vigorously. Something inside began to murmur a smooth and steady zuum-zuum.
He now took the top cap off the cylinder, having to stand on tiptoe to get at it. Then he sat on a nearby rock and waited. After the cylinder had warmed up it emitted a sharp click and the zuum-zuum struck a deeper note. He knew that it was now shouting into space, using soundless words far stronger and more penetrating than those of any spoken language.
Whirrup-dzzt-pam! Whirrup-dzzt-pam!
“Jaimec calling! Jaimec calling!”
Now he could do nothing more save bide his time in patience. The call was not being directed straight to Terra which was much too far away to permit a conversation with brief time-lags. It was being squirted at a spatial listening-post and field headquarters near enough to be on or perhaps actually within the rim of the Sirian Empire. He did not know its precise location and, as Wolf had remarked, what he didn’t know he couldn’t tell.
A prompt response was unlikely. Out there in the dark they’d be listening for a hundred calls on a hundred frequencies and be held on some of them while messages passed to and fro. He’d have to wait his turn.
Nearly three hours crawled by while the cylinder stood on the pebble beach and gave forth its scarcely hearable zuum-zuum. Then suddenly a tiny red eye glowed bright and winked steadily near its top.
Again he strained on tiptoe, cursing his shortness, felt into the cylinder’s open top and took out what looked exactly like an ordinary telephone. Holding it to his ear, he said into the mouthpiece, “JM on Jaimec.”
It was a few minutes before the response came back in the shape of a voice that sounded as though speaking through a load of gravel. But it was a Terran voice speaking the wel-come-sounding Terran language. It said, “Ready to tape your report. Fire away.”
Mowry tried to sit down while he talked but found the connecting cord too short. So he had to stand. In this position he recited as fast as he could. The Tale of a Wasp by Samuel Sucker, he thought wryly. He gave it in full detail and again had to wait quite a while for the come-back.
Then the voice rasped, “Good! You’re doing fine!”
“Am I? Can’t see any signs of it so far. I’ve been plastering paper all over the planet and nothing is happening.”
“Plenty is happening,” contradicted the Voice. It came through with a rhythmic variation in amplitude as it fooled Sirian detection devices by switching five times per second through a chain of differently positioned transmitters. “You just can’t see the full picture from where you’re standing.”
“How about giving me a glimpse?”
“The pot is coming slowly but surely to the boil. Their fleets are being widely dispersed, there are vast troop movements from their overcrowded home-system to the outer planets of their empire. They’re gradually
being chivvied into a fix. They can’t hold what they’ve got without spreading all over it. The wider they spread the thinner they get. The thinner they get the easier it is to bite lumps out of them. Hold it a bit while I check your planet” He went off, came back after a time. “Yes, position there is that they daren’t take any strength away from Jaimec no matter how greatly needed elsewhere. In fact they may yet have to add to it at the expense of Diracta. You’re the cause of that.”
“Sweet of you to say so,” said Mowry. A thought struck him and he said eagerly, “Hey, who gave you that information?”
“Monitoring and Decoding Service. They dig a lot out of enemy broadcasts.”
“Oh.” He felt disappointed, having hoped for news of a Terran Intelligence agent somewhere on Jaimec. But of course even if there was one they wouldn’t tell him. They’d lie about it. They’d give him no information that Kaitempi persuasion might force out of him. “How about this Kaitempi card and embossing machine? Do I leave them here to be collected or do I keep them for myself?”
“Stand by and I’ll find out.” The voice went away for more than an hour, returned with, “Sorry about the delay. Distance takes time in any terms. You can keep that stuff and use it as you think best. T.I. got a card recently. An agent bought one for them.”
“Bought one?” He waggled his eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes—with his life. What did yours cost?”
“Major Sallana’s life, as I told you.”
“Tsk-tsk! Those cards come mighty dear.” There was a pause, then, “Closing down. Best of luck!”
“Thanks!”
With some reluctance Mowry replaced the receiver, switched off the zuum-zuum, capped the cylinder and rolled it back into the cave. He’d have liked to listen until dawn to anything that maintained the invisible tie between him and that faraway lifeform. “Best of luck!” the voice had said, not knowing how much more it meant than the alien, “Live long!’ From yet another container he took several packets and small parcels, distributed them about his person, put others into a canvas shoulder-bag of the kind favoured by the Sirian peasantry. Impatience prevented him from waiting for the full light of day. Being now more familiar with the forest lie felt sure he could fumble his way through it even in the dark. The going would be tougher, the journey would take longer, but he could not resist the urge to get back to the car as soon as possible.
Wasp Page 7