“We’ll do nothing of the kind. We need that spaceport to stay alive. But we will take Ravick and Belsher and Hallstock—”
“And that etaoin shrdlu traitor of a Ware!” Joe Kivelson added.
“And Bish Ware,” Oscar agreed. “They only have fifty police; we have three or four thousand men.”
Three or four thousand undisciplined hunters, against fifty trained, disciplined and organized soldiers, because that was what the spaceport police were. I knew their captain, and the lieutenants. They were old Regular Army, and they ran the police force like a military unit.
“I’ll bet Ware was working for Ravick all along,” Joe was saying.
That wasn’t good thinking even for Joe Kivelson. I said:
“If he was working for Ravick all along, why did he tip Dad and Oscar and the Mahatma on the bomb aboard the Javelin? That wasn’t any help to Ravick.”
“I get it,” Oscar said. “He never was working for anybody but Bish Ware. When Ravick got into a jam, he saw a way to make something for himself by getting Ravick out of it. I’ll bet, ever since he came here, he was planning to cut in on Ravick somehow. You notice, he knew just how much money Ravick had stashed away on Terra? When he saw the spot Ravick was in, Bish just thought he had a chance to develop himself another rich uncle.”
I’d been worse stunned than anybody by Dad’s news. The worst of it was that Oscar could be right. I hadn’t thought of that before. I’d just thought that Ravick and Belsher had gotten Bish drunk and found out about the way the men were posted around Hunters’ Hall and the lone man in the jeep on Second Level Down.
Then it occurred to me that Bish might have seen a way of getting Fenris rid of Ravick and at the same time save everybody the guilt of lynching him. Maybe he’d turned traitor to save the rest of us from ourselves.
I turned to Oscar. “Why get excited about it?” I asked. “You have what you wanted. You said yourself that you couldn’t care less whether Ravick got away or not, as long as you got him out of the Co-op. Well, he’s out for good now.”
“That was before the fire,” Oscar said. “We didn’t have a couple of million sols’ worth of wax burned. And Tom Kivelson wasn’t in the hospital with half the skin burned off his back, and a coin toss whether he lives or not.”
“Yes. I thought you were Tom’s friend,” Joe Kivelson reproached me.
I wondered how much skin hanging Steve Ravick would grow on Tom’s back. I didn’t see much percentage in asking him, though. I did turn to Oscar Fujisawa with a quotation I remembered from Moby Dick, the book he’d named his ship from.
“How many barrels will thy vengeance yield thee, even if thou gettest it, Captain Ahab?” I asked. “It will not fetch thee much in our Nantucket market.”
He looked at me angrily and started to say something. Then he shrugged.
“I know, Walt,” he said. “But you can’t measure everything in barrels of whale oil. Or skins of tallow-wax.”
Which was one of those perfectly true statements which are also perfectly meaningless. I gave up. My job’s to get the news, not to make it. I wondered if that meant anything, either.
They finally got the mob sorted out, after a lot of time wasted in pillaging Ravick’s living quarters on the fourth floor. However, the troops stopped to loot the enemy’s camp. I’d come across that line fifty to a hundred times in history books. Usually, it had been expensive looting; if the enemy didn’t counterattack, they managed, at least, to escape. More to the point, they gathered up all the cannon and machine guns around the place and got them onto contragravity in the street. There must have been close to five thousand men, by now, and those who couldn’t crowd onto vehicles marched on foot, and the whole mass, looking a little more like an army than a mob, started up Broadway.
Since it is not proper for reporters to loot on the job, I had gotten outside in my jeep early and was going ahead, swinging my camera back to get the parade behind me. Might furnish a still-shot illustration for somebody’s History of Fenris in a century or so.
Broadway was empty until we came to the gateway to the spaceport area. There was a single medium combat car there, on contragravity halfway to the ceiling, with a pair of 50-mm guns and a rocket launcher pointed at us, and under it, on the roadway, a solitary man in an olive-green uniform stood.
I knew him; Lieutenant Ranjit Singh, Captain Courtland’s second-in-command. He was a Sikh. Instead of a steel helmet, he wore a striped turban, and he had a black beard that made Joe Kivelson’s blond one look like Tom Kivelson’s chin-fuzz. On his belt, along with his pistol, he wore the little kirpan, the dagger all Sikhs carry. He also carried a belt radio, and as we approached he lifted the phone to his mouth and a loudspeaker on the combat car threw his voice at us:
“All right, that’s far enough, now. The first vehicle that comes within a hundred yards of this gate will be shot down.”
One man, and one combat car, against five thousand, with twenty-odd guns and close to a hundred machine guns. He’d last about as long as a pint of trade gin at a Sheshan funeral. The only thing was, before he and the crew of the combat car were killed, they’d wipe out about ten or fifteen of our vehicles and a couple of hundred men, and they would be the men and vehicles in the lead.
Mobs are a little different from soldiers, and our Rebel Army was still a mob. Mobs don’t like to advance into certain death, and they don’t like to advance over the bodies and wreckage of their own forward elements. Neither do soldiers, but soldiers will do it. Soldiers realize, when they put on the uniform, that some day they may face death in battle, and if this is it, this is it.
I got the combat car and the lone soldier in the turban—that would look good in anybody’s history book—and moved forward, taking care that he saw the Times lettering on the jeep and taking care to stay well short of the deadline. I let down to the street and got out, taking off my gun belt and hanging it on the control handle of the jeep. Then I walked forward.
“Lieutenant Ranjit,” I said, “I’m representing the Times. I have business inside the spaceport. I want to get the facts about this. It may be that when I get this story, these people will be satisfied.”
“We will, like Nifflheim!” I heard Joe Kivelson bawling, above and behind me. “We want the men who started the fire my son got burned in.”
“Is that the Kivelson boy’s father?” the Sikh asked me, and when I nodded, he lifted the phone to his lips again. “Captain Kivelson,” the loudspeaker said, “your son is alive and under skin-grafting treatment here at the spaceport hospital. His life is not, repeat not, in danger. The men you are after are here, under guard. If any of them are guilty of any crimes, and if you can show any better authority than an armed mob to deal with them, they may, may, I said, be turned over for trial. But they will not be taken from this spaceport by force, as long as I or one of my men remains alive.”
“That’s easy. We’ll get them afterward,” Joe Kivelson shouted.
“Somebody may. You won’t,” Ranjit Singh told him. “Van Steen, hit that ship’s boat first, and hit it at the first hostile move anybody in this mob makes.”
“Yes, sir. With pleasure,” another voice replied.
Nobody in the Rebel Army, if that was what it still was, had any comment to make on that. Lieutenant Ranjit turned to me.
“Mr. Boyd,” he said. None of this sonny-boy stuff; Ranjit Singh was a man of dignity, and he respected the dignity of others. “If I admit you to the spaceport, will you give these people the facts exactly as you learn them?”
“That’s what the Times always does, Lieutenant.” Well, almost all the facts almost always.
“Will you people accept what this Times reporter tells you he has learned?”
“Yes, of course.” That was Oscar Fujisawa.
“I won’t!” That was Joe Kivelson. “He’s always taking the part of that old rumpot of a Bish Ware.”
“Lieutenant, that remark was a slur on my paper, as well as myself,” I said. “Will you permit Captain Kive
lson to come in along with me? And somebody else,” I couldn’t resist adding, “so that people will believe him?”
Ranjit Singh considered that briefly. He wasn’t afraid to die—I believe he was honestly puzzled when he heard people talking about fear—but his job was to protect some fugitives from a mob, not to die a useless hero’s death. If letting in a small delegation would prevent an attack on the spaceport without loss of life and ammunition—or maybe he reversed the order of importance—he was obliged to try it.
“Yes. You may choose five men to accompany Mr. Boyd,” he said. “They may not bring weapons in with them. Sidearms,” he added, “will not count as weapons.”
After all, a kirpan was a sidearm, and his religion required him to carry that. The decision didn’t make me particularly happy. Respect for the dignity of others is a fine thing in an officer, but like journalistic respect for facts, it can be carried past the point of being a virtue. I thought he was over-estimating Joe Kivelson’s self-control.
Vehicles in front began grounding, and men got out and bunched together on the street. Finally, they picked their delegation: Joe Kivelson, Oscar Fujisawa, Casmir Oughourlian the shipyard man, one of the engineers at the nutrient plant, and the Reverend Hiram Zilker, the Orthodox-Monophysite preacher. They all had pistols, even the Reverend Zilker, so I went back to the jeep and put mine on. Ranjit Singh had switched his radio off the speaker and was talking to somebody else. After a while, an olive-green limousine piloted by a policeman in uniform and helmet floated in and grounded. The six of us got into it, and it lifted again.
The car let down in a vehicle hall in the administrative area, and the police second lieutenant, Chris Xantos, was waiting alone, armed only with the pistol that was part of his uniform and wearing a beret instead of a helmet. He spoke to us, and ushered us down a hallway toward Guido Fieschi’s office.
I get into the spaceport administrative area about once in twenty or so hours. Oughourlian is a somewhat less frequent visitor. The others had never been there, and they were visibly awed by all the gleaming glass and brightwork, and the soft lights and the thick carpets. All Port Sandor ought to look like this, I thought. It could, and maybe now it might, after a while.
There were six chairs in a semicircle facing Guido Fieschi’s desk, and three men sitting behind it. Fieschi, who had changed clothes and washed since the last time I saw him, sat on the extreme right. Captain Courtland, with his tight mouth under a gray mustache and the quadruple row of medal ribbons on his breast, was on the left. In the middle, the seat of honor, was Bish Ware, looking as though he were presiding over a church council to try some rural curate for heresy.
As soon as Joe Kivelson saw him, he roared angrily:
“There’s the dirty traitor who sold us out! He’s the worst of the lot; I wouldn’t be surprised if—”
Bish looked at him like a bishop who has just been contradicted on a point of doctrine by a choirboy.
“Be quiet!” he ordered. “I did not follow this man you call Ravick here to this…this running-hot-and-cold Paradise planet, and I did not spend five years fraternizing with its unwashed citizenry and creating for myself the role of town drunkard of Port Sandor, to have him taken from me and lynched after I have arrested him. People do not lynch my prisoners.”
“And who in blazes are you?” Joe demanded.
Bish took cognizance of the question, if not the questioner.
“Tell them, if you please, Mr. Fieschi,” he said.
“Well, Mr. Ware is a Terran Federation Executive Special Agent,” Fieschi said. “Captain Courtland and I have known that for the past five years. As far as I know, nobody else was informed of Mr. Ware’s position.”
After that, you could have heard a gnat sneeze.
Everybody knows about Executive Special Agents. There are all kinds of secret agents operating in the Federation—Army and Navy Intelligence, police of different sorts, Colonial Office agents, private detectives, Chartered Company agents. But there are fewer Executive Specials than there are inhabited planets in the Federation. They rank, ex officio, as Army generals and Space Navy admirals; they have the privilege of the floor in Parliament, they take orders from nobody but the President of the Federation. But very few people have ever seen one, or talked to anybody who has.
And Bish Ware—good ol’ Bish; he’sh everybodysh frien’—was one of them. And I had been trying to make a man of him and reform him. I’d even thought, if he stopped drinking, he might make a success as a private detective—at Port Sandor, on Fenris! I wondered what color my face had gotten now, and I started looking around for a crack in the floor, to trickle gently and unobtrusively into.
And it should have been obvious to me, maybe not that he was an Executive Special, but that he was certainly no drunken barfly. The way he’d gone four hours without a drink, and seemed to be just as drunk as ever. That was right—just as drunk as he’d ever been; which was to say, cold sober. There was the time I’d seen him catch that falling bottle and set it up. No drunken man could have done that; a man’s reflexes are the first thing to be affected by alcohol. And the way he shot that tread-snail. I’ve seen men who could shoot well on liquor, but not quick-draw stuff. That calls for perfect co-ordination. And the way he went into his tipsy act at the Times—veteran actor slipping into a well-learned role.
He drank, sure. He did a lot of drinking. But there are men whose systems resist the effects of alcohol better than others, and he must have been an exceptional example of the type, or he’d never have adopted the sort of cover personality he did. It would have been fairly easy for him. Space his drinks widely, and never take a drink unless he had to, to maintain the act. When he was at the Times with just Dad and me, what did he have? A fruit fizz.
Well, at least I could see it after I had my nose rubbed in it. Joe Kivelson was simply gaping at him. The Reverend Zilker seemed to be having trouble adjusting, too. The shipyard man and the chemical engineer weren’t saying anything, but it had kicked them for a loss, too. Oscar Fujisawa was making a noble effort to be completely unsurprised. Oscar is one of our better poker players.
“I thought it might be something like that,” he lied brazenly. “But, Bish… Excuse me, I mean, Mr. Ware…”
“Bish, if you please, Oscar.”
“Bish, what I’d like to know is what you wanted with Ravick,” he said. “They didn’t send any Executive Special Agent here for five years to investigate this tallow-wax racket of his.”
“No. We have been looking for him for a long time. Fifteen years, and I’ve been working on it that long. You might say, I have made a career of him. Steve Ravick is really Anton Gerrit.”
Maybe he was expecting us to leap from our chairs and cry out, “Aha! The infamous Anton Gerrit! Brought to book at last!” We didn’t. We just looked at one another, trying to connect some meaning to the name. It was Joe Kivelson, of all people, who caught the first gleam.
“I know that name,” he said. “Something on Loki, wasn’t it?”
Yes; that was it. Now that my nose was rubbed in it again, I got it.
“The Loki enslavements. Was that it?” I asked. “I read about it, but I never seem to have heard of Gerrit.”
“He was the mastermind. The ones who were caught, fifteen years ago, were the underlings, but Ravick was the real Number One. He was responsible for the enslavement of from twenty to thirty thousand Lokian natives, gentle, harmless, friendly people, most of whom were worked to death in the mines.”
No wonder an Executive Special would put in fifteen years looking for him. You murder your grandmother, or rob a bank, or burn down an orphanage with the orphans all in bed upstairs, or something trivial like that, and if you make an off-planet getaway, you’re reasonably safe. Of course there’s such a thing as extradition, but who bothers? Distances are too great, and communication is too slow, and the Federation depends on every planet to do its own policing.
But enslavement’s something different. The Terran Federat
ion is a government of and for—if occasionally not by—all sapient peoples of all races. The Federation Constitution guarantees equal rights to all. Making slaves of people, human or otherwise, is a direct blow at everything the Federation stands for. No wonder they kept hunting fifteen years for the man responsible for the Loki enslavements.
“Gerrit got away, with a month’s start. By the time we had traced him to Baldur, he had a year’s start on us. He was five years ahead of us when we found out that he’d gone from Baldur to Odin. Six years ago, nine years after we’d started hunting for him, we decided, from the best information we could get, that he had left Odin on one of the local-stop ships for Terra, and dropped off along the way. There are six planets at which those Terra-Odin ships stop. We sent a man to each of them. I drew this prize out of the hat.
“When I landed here, I contacted Mr. Fieschi, and we found that a man answering to Gerrit’s description had come in on the Peenemünde from Odin seven years before, about the time Gerrit had left Odin. The man who called himself Steve Ravick. Of course, he didn’t look anything like the pictures of Gerrit, but facial surgery was something we’d taken for granted he’d have done. I finally managed to get his fingerprints.”
Special Agent Ware took out a cigar, inspected it with the drunken oversolemnity he’d been drilling himself into for five years, and lit it. Then he saw what he was using and rose, holding it out, and I went to the desk and took back my lighter-weapon.
“Thank you, Walt. I wouldn’t have been able to do this if I hadn’t had that. Where was I? Oh, yes. I got Gerrit-alias-Ravick’s fingerprints, which did not match the ones we had on file for Gerrit, and sent them in. It was eighteen months later that I got a reply on them. According to his fingerprints, Steve Ravick was really a woman named Ernestine Coyón, who had died of acute alcoholism in the free public ward of a hospital at Paris-on-Baldur fourteen years ago.”
“Why, that’s incredible!” the Reverend Zilker burst out, and Joe Kivelson was saying: “Steve Ravick isn’t any woman.…”
The H. Beam Piper Megapack Page 134