Wasp

by Eric Frank Russell

  “Yar,” repeated Mowry with becoming gusto.

  “We snatched a dozen from a cafe in the Laksin quarter,” informed Sagramatholou. “They’re talking, too. But they aren’t talking sense-yet. They’ve admitted every crime in the calendar except membership of D.A.G. About that organisation they know nothing, so they say.”

  “What took you to the cafe?”

  “Somebody got his stupid head knocked off. He was a regular frequenter of the joint. We identified him after a lot of trouble, traced him back and grabbed a bunch of his ever-loving friends. About six of them have confessed to the killing.”

  “Six?” Mowry frowned.

  “Yar. They did it at six different times, in six different places, for six different reasons. The dirty sokos are lying to make us ease up. But we’ll get the truth out of them yet.”

  “Sounds like a mere hoodlum squabble to me. Where’s the political angle, if any?”

  “I don’t know. The higher-ups keep things to themselves. They say they know for a fact that it was a D.A.G. execution and therefore whoever did it is a D.A.G. killer.”

  “Maybe somebody tipped them,” offered Mowry.

  “Maybe somebody did. And he could be a liar too.” He let go a snort of disgust. “This war is enough without traitors and liars making things worse. We’re being run ragged, see? It can’t go on for ever.”

  “Any luck with the snap-searches?”

  “There was at first. Then the luck petered out because everyone became wary. We’ve stopped making them for ten days. The lull will give the dodgers a sense of false security. When they’re ripe for the taking, we’ll take them.”

  “That’s a good idea. One has to use one’s wits these days, hi?”

  “Yar.”

  “Here we are. Turn left and then first right”

  The car shot past the rear of the engine plant, entered a narrow, rutted road, switched into another little better than a lane. All around was an unsavoury, semi-deserted area full of old buildings, vacant lots and garbage dumps. They stopped, got out.

  Gazing about him, the Kaitempi agent remarked, “A typical vermin-run. A couple of years ago we smoked a gang of god-worshippers out of an old warehouse in this district”

  Mowry put on a look of revulsion, “You mean a bunch infected with Terran religion?”

  “Yar, true believers. When the noose tightened their praying tongues stuck out and went black the same as any sinners.” He laughed at the recollection of it, glanced at the other. “Where now?”

  “Along this alley.”

  Mowry led the way into the alley which was long, dirty and had a dead end. They reached the twelve-foot wall that blocked further progress. There was nobody in sight, nothing could be heard save a distant hum of traffic and the nearer squeak of a hanging sign, old and rusty.

  Pointing to the door set in the wall, Mowry said, This is the bolt-hole. It will take me two or three minutes to get round the front and go in. After that you can expect anything.” He tried the door. It refused to budge. “Locked.”

  “Better unlock it so he can make a clear run;” suggested Sagramatholou. “If he finds himself balked he’s liable to try shoot it out with you and I’ll be in no position to take part. These sokos can become dangerous when desperate.” He felt in a pocket, produced a bunch of master-keys. Grinning, he added, “The easiest way is to let him rush straight into my arms.”

  With that, he faced the door, turning his back on Mowry while he meddled with the lock. Mowry looked back along the alley. Still nobody in sight.

  Taking out his gun, he said in calm, unhurried tones, “You kicked the old geezer when he was down.”

  “Sure did,” enthused the agent, still trying the lock. “I hope he dies slowly, the half-witted—” His voice broke off as the incongruity of Mowry’s remark sank into his mind. He turned round, one hand braced upon the door, and looked straight into the gun’s muzzle. “What’s this? What are you—”

  The gun gave a whut no louder than that of an air-pistol. Sagramatholou remained standing, a blue hole in his forehead. His mouth hung open in an idiotic gape. Then his knees gave way and he plunged forward face first.

  Pocketing the gun, Mowry bent over the body. Working fast, he searched it, replaced the wallet after a swift look through it but confiscated the official badge. Hastening out the alley, he got into the car, drove it downtown to within a short distance of a used car lot. Walking the rest of the way he looked over the big assembly of badly beaten-up dynos. A thin, hard-faced Sirian immediately sidled up to him, his crafty eyes noting the well-cut suit, the platinum fob and wrist-band. This, obviously, was harvest time.

  “Lucky you!” announced the Sirian, greasily. “You have found the best place on Jaimec for a genuine bargain. Every car a real sacrifice. There’s a war on, prices are going to jump and you just can’t go wrong. Now take a look at this beauty right here. A gift, a positive gift. It’s a—”

  “I’ve got eyes,” said Mowry.

  “Yar, sure. I’m pointing out—”

  “I’ve got a mind of my own,” Mowry informed. “And I wouldn’t drive around in any of these relics unless I was in a hurry to be struck dead.”

  “But—”

  “Like everyone else, I know there’s a war on. before long it’s going to be mighty tough getting bits and pieces. I’m in-terested in something I can strip down for parts.” He pointed.

  “That one, for instance. How much?”

  “She’s a good runner,” expostulated the salesman, donning a look of horror. “Purrs along like brand new. Got current plates—”

  “I can see it’s got current plates.”

  “…and is good and solid from front to back. I’m giving it away, just giving it”

  “How much?”

  “Nine-ninety,” said the other, again eyeing the suit and the platinum.

  “Robbery,” said Mowry.

  They haggled for half an hour at the end of which Mowry got it for eight-twenty. He paid and drove it away. It creaked, groaned and lurched in a manner that showed he’d still been soaked for at least two hundred, but he wasn’t resentful about that.

  On a lot littered with scrap-iron a mile away, with nobody watching, he parked the car, smashed its windshield and lamps, removed its wheels and number plates, took all detach-able parts from the motor and effectively converted the machine into what any passer-by could see was an abandoned wreck. He walked off, returned in short time with the dead agent’s car, loaded the loose parts into it.

  Half an hour later he slung the wheels and other items into the river. With them went Sagramatholou’s plates. He drove away bearing the plates taken from the wreck; the exchange had cost him eight-twenty in counterfeit money and was cheap at the price. A police patrol or another Kaitempi car could now follow him for miles without spotting the number for which undoubtedly they’d be seeking.

  Assured of no more snap-searches for the time being he idled around town until the sky went dark. Dumping the car in an underground garage, he bought a paper and perused it during a meal.

  According to this news-sheet a lone Terran destroyer—described as “a cowardly sneak-raider’—had managed to make a desperate dash through formidable space defences and drop one bomb upon the great national armaments. complex at Shugruma. Little damage had been done. The invader had been blown apart soon afterward.

  The story had been written up to give the impression that a sly dog had got in a harmless bite and been shot for its pains. He wondered how many readers believed it. Shugruma was more than three hundred miles away—yet Pertane had shuddered to the shock-waves of the distant explosion. If that was anything to go by, the target area must now be represented by a crater a couple of miles in diameter.

  The second page stated that forty-eight members of the traitorous Sirian Freedom Party had been seized by forces of law and order and would be dealt with appropriately. No details offered, no names given, no charges stated.

  This was normal among a
species with a secret judicial system, on worlds where any suspect could be snatched from the street and never seen again. There were no judges and juries holding public trials anywhere within the Sirian Empire. If lucky, the arrested one eventually was released, physically enfeebled, without apology or compensation. If out of luck, his next of kin did not so much as receive a jar containing his ashes.

  The forty-eight were doomed, whoever they were or whoever they were thought to be. Alternatively, the whole yarn could be an officially concocted lie. The powers-that-be were quite capable of venting their fury on half a dozen common crooks and, for public consumption, defining them as D.A.G. members while multiplying their number by eight. Authority is maintained and wars are fought by propaganda, a cover word for cynical perversion of the facts.

  One of the back pages devoted a few lines to the modest statement that Sirian forces had now been withdrawn from the planet Gooma “so that they can be deployed more effectively in the actual area of combat.” This implied that Gooma was far outside the area of combat, a transparent piece of nonsense to any reader capable of independent thought. But ninety percent of the readership could not endure the awful strain of thinking: they were content to look and listen and swallow whatever guff got dished out.

  Far and away the most significant item was the leader-writer’s contribution. This was a pompous sermon based on the thesis that total war should end only in total victory which could and must be gained only by total effort. There was no room for political division within the Sirian ranks. Everyone without exception must be solidly behind the leadership in its determination to fight the war to a successful conclusion. Doubters and waverers, dodgers and complainers, the lazy and the shiftless were as much traitors to the cause as any spy or saboteur. They should be dealt with swiftly, once and for all. They should be slaughtered without mercy.

  Clearly it was a yelp of agony although Dirac Angestun Gesept was not mentioned in plain words. Since in time of war all such lectures were officially inspired, it was reasonable to assume that the brasshats were experiencing acute pains in the buttocks. In effect they were shouting out loud that a wasp could sting. Perhaps some of them had received little parcels that ticked and did not approve of this switch from the general to the personal.

  Now that night had fallen Mowry lugged his case to his room. He made the approach warily. Any hideout could become a trap at any time, without warning. Apart from the possibility of the police or Kaitempi lying in wait after having got a line on him, there was also the chance of encountering a landlord who’d become curious about the use of the room by another and more prosperous Iooking character. True, the landlord was a tightmouth typical of slumdom but even he would curry favour with the Kaitempi if he thought it necessary to save his own neck. The landlord was not to be trusted. On a hostile world nobody was to be trusted.

  The building wasn’t watched, the room was not staked. He managed to sneak in unobserved. Everything proved to be exactly as he had left it, showing that nobody yet had found reason to come nosing around. Thankfully he sprawled on the bed and gave his feet a rest while he considered the situation. It was evident that as far as possible he would have to enter and leave the room only during hours of darkness. The alternative was to seek another hideout, preferably in a better-class area more in keeping with his present character. He didn’t want to start another time-wasting search for a rat-hole unless he was driven to it.

  The following day he regretted the destruction of his first case and all its contents in Radine. This loss piled up the work, made it tedious and boring. But it had to be done. As a result he spent all morning in the public library compiling a list of names and addresses to replace the previous one. Then with plain paper, envelopes and a small hand-printer he used another two days preparing a stack of letters. It was a relief when they were finished and mailed.

  Sagramatholou was the fourth.

  The list is long.

  Dirac Angestun Gesept.

  Thus he had killed several birds with one stone. He had avenged the oldster, a motive that gave him a good deal of satisfaction. He had struck another blow at the Kaitempi. He’d acquired a car not traceable through renting agencies or usual sales channels. Finally he had given authority further proof of D.A.G.’s willingness to kill, maim or otherwise muscle its way to power.

  To boost this situation he mailed at the same time another six parcels. Outwardly these were identical with the former ones. They emitted the same subdued tick. There the resemblance ended. At periods varying between six and twenty hours after sending, or at any moment that someone tried pry them open, they were due to go off with a bang sufficiently forceful to plaster a body against the wall.

  On the fourth day after his return to the roam he slipped out unseen, collected the car and visited Marker 33-den on the Radine road. Several patrol cars passed him on the way but none betrayed the slightest interest in him. Reaching the marker, he dug at its base, found his own cellophane envelope now containing a small card. All it said was: Asako 19-1713. The trick had come off.

  Forthwith he drove back to the first booth he could find, switched off its scanner and called the number. A strange voice answered while the visiscreen remained blank. Evidently there was similar caution at the other end.

  “19-1713,” it said.

  “Gurd or Skriva there?” asked Mowry.

  “Wait,” ordered the voice.

  “One moment and no more,” retorted Mowry. “After that goodbye!”

  The only answer was a grunt. Mowry hung on, watching the road, ready to drop the phone and beat it immediately his intuition told him to get away fast. The college had told him times without number never to disregard the strange, in-definable smell of an ambush. There must be something in it seeing he was still alive and fancy free.

  He was nearing the point of taking alarm when Skriva’s voice came through and growled, “Who’s that?”

  “Your benefactor.”

  “Oh, you. I’m not getting your pic.”

  “I’m not getting yours either. What’s the matter—are you windy?”

  “This is no place to talk,” said Skriva. “We’d better meet. Where are you?”

  A swift series of thoughts flashed through Mowry’s mind. Where are you? Was Skriva allowing himself to be used as bait? If he’d been caught and given a preliminary taste of rough treatment it was just the sort of crafty trick the Kaitempi would play. They’d get Skriva’s full co-operation after showing him the consequences of refusal.

  On the other hand it wasn’t likely in such circumstances that Skriva would bother asking for his location. The Kaitempi would know it already, having traced the call. Moreover they’d want the conversation prolonging as much as possible to hold Mowry there. Skriva was trying to cut it short. Yes, the betting was against a trap.

  “You struck dumb?” shouted Skriva, impatient and suspicious.

  That settled the matter from Mowry’s viewpoint and he replied, “I was thinking. How about meeting me where you left your phone number?”

  “That’s as good as anywhere.”

  “By yourself,” warned Mowry. “Nobody else with you excepting Gurd. Nobody following and nobody hanging around.”

  “Who’s windy now?” said Skriva. “I’m coming right away.”

  Driving back to the marker, Mowry parked his car on the verge and waited. Twenty minutes afterward Skriva’s dyno rolled up, parked behind. Skriva got out, approached him, halted in mid-step, scowled uncertainly, slid a hand into a pocket and looked hurriedly up and down the road. There were no other cars in sight.

  Mowry grinned at him. “What’s eating you? Got a guilty conscience or something?”

  Coming closer, Skriva eyed him with slight incredulity, then commented, “So it is you. What have you been doing to yourself?”

  Without waiting for a reply he walked around the bonnet, climbed in, took the other seat. “You don’t look the same. It was hard to recognise you.”

  “That’s the
idea. A change for the better wouldn’t do you any harm, either. Make it harder for the cops to get you.”

  “Maybe.” Skriva was silent for a moment, then, “They got Gurd.”

  Mowry sat up. “How? When was this?”

  “The damn fool came down from a roof straight into the arms of two of them. Not satisfied with that he gave them some lip and went for his gun.”

  “If he’d behaved like he’d every right to be up there he could have talked his way out of it.”

  “Gurd couldn’t talk his way out of an old sack,” opined Skriva. “He’s not made like that. I spend a lot of time keeping him out of trouble.”

  “How come you weren’t collared too?”

  “I was on another roof halfway down the street. They didn’t see me. It was all over before I could get down to help Gurd.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “What you’d expect. The cops were already beating him over the head before he got his hand in his pocket. Last I saw of him was when they flung him into the wagon.”

  “Tough luck!” sympathised Mowry. He meditated a while, asked, “And what happened at the Cafe Susun?”

  “Don’t know exactly. Gurd and I weren’t there at the time and a fellow tipped us to stay clear. All I know is that the Kaitempi rushed the place twenty strong, grabbed everyone in sight and staked it. I’ve not shown my face near there since. Some soko must have talked too much.”

  “Butin Arhava, for instance?”

  “How could he?” scoffed Skriva. “Gurd took his head off before he’d a chance to blab.”

  “Maybe he talked after Gurd had tended to him,” Mowry suggested. “Sort of lost his head about it.”

  Skriva narrowed his eyes: “What d’you mean?”

  “Oh, forget it. Did you collect that roll from the bridge?”

  “Yar.”

  “Want any more—or are you now too rich to care?”

  Studying him calculatingly, Skriva asked, “How much money have you got altogether?”

  “Enough to pay for all the jobs I want done.”

  “That tells me nothing.”