Gilead turned suddenly and trod heavily on the feet of the man crowded close behind him. “Wups! pardon me," he said happily and turned away. He was feeling very cheerful; not only had he turned his dangerous charge over into the care of a mindless, utterly reliable, automatic machine which could not be coerced, bribed, drugged, nor subverted by any other means and in whose complexities the tube would be perfectly hidden until it reached a destination known only to Gilead, but also he had just stepped on the corns of one of the opposition.
On the steps of the post office he paused beside a policeman who was picking his teeth and staring out at a cluster of people and an ambulance in the middle of the concourse. “What’s up?" Gilead demanded.
The cop shifted his toothpick. “First some damn fool sets off fireworks," he answered, “then two guys get in a fight and blame near ruin each other."
“My goodness!" Gilead commented and set off diagonally toward the New Age Hotel.
He looked around for his pick-pocket friend in the lobby, did not see him. Gilead strongly doubted if the runt were on the hotel’s staff. He signed in as Captain Gilead, ordered a suite appropriate to the persona he was wearing, and let himself be conducted to the lift.
Gilead encountered the runner coming down just as he and his bellman were about to go up. “Hi, Shorty!" he called out while deciding not to eat anything in this hotel. “How’s business?"
The runt looked startled, then passed him without answering, his eyes blank. It was not likely, Gilead considered, that the runt would be used after being detected; therefore some sort of drop box, call station, or headquarters of the opposition was actually inside the hotel. Very well, that would save everybody a lot of useless commuting — and there would be fun for all!
In the meantime he wanted a bath.
In his suite he tipped the bellman who continued to linger.
“Want some company?"
“No, thanks, I’m a hermit."
“Try this then." The bellman inserted Gilead’s room key in the stereo panel, fiddled with the controls, the entire wall lighted up and faded away. A svelte blonde creature, backed by a chorus line, seemed about to leap into Gilead’s lap. “That’s not a tape," the bellman went on, “that’s a live transmission direct from the Tivoli. We got the best equipment in town."
“So you have," Gilead agreed, and pulled out his key. The picture blanked; the music stopped. “But I want a bath, so get out — now that you’ve spent four credits of my money."
The bellman shrugged and left. Gilead threw off his clothes and stepped into the 'fresher. Twenty minutes later, shaved from ear to toe, scrubbed, soaked, sprayed, pummeled, rubbed, scented, powdered, and feeling ten years younger, he stepped out. His clothes were gone.
His bag was still there; he looked it over. It seemed okay, itself and contents. There were the proper number of microfilm spools — not that it mattered. Only three of the spools mattered and they were already in the mail. The rest were just shrubbery, copies of his own public lectures. Nevertheless he examined one of them, unspooling a few frames.
It was one of his own lectures all right — but not one he had had with him. It was one of his published transcriptions, available in any large book store. “Pixies everywhere," he remarked and put it back. Such attention to detail was admirable.
“Room service!"
The service panel lighted up. “Yes, sir?"
“My clothes are missing. Chase 'em up for me."
“The valet has them, sir."
“I didn’t order valet service. Get 'em back."
The girl’s voice and face were replaced, after a slight delay, by those of a man. “It is not necessary to order valet service here, sir. 'A New Age guest receives the best’."
“Okay, get 'em back — chop, chop! I’ve got a date with the Queen of Sheba."
“Very good, sir." The image faded.
With wry humor he reviewed his situation. He had already made the possibly fatal error of underestimating his opponent through — he now knew — visualizing that opponent in the unimpressive person of “the runt." Thus he had allowed himself to be diverted; he should have gone anywhere rather than to the New Age, even to the old Savoy, although that hotel, being a known stamping ground of Captain Gilead, was probably as thoroughly booby-trapped by now as this palatial dive.
He must not assume that he had more than a few more minutes to live. Therefore he must use those few minutes to tell his boss the destination of the three important spools of microfilm. Thereafter, if he still were alive, he must replenish his cash to give him facilities for action — the amount of money in “his" wallet, even if it were returned, was useless for any major action. Thirdly, he must report in, close the present assignment, and be assigned to his present antagonists as a case in themselves, quite aside from the matter of the microfilm.
Not that he intended to drop Runt Company even if not assigned to them. True artists were scarce — nailing him down by such a simple device as stealing his pants! He loved them for it and wanted to see more of them, as violently as possible.
Even as the image on the room service panel faded he was punching the scrambled keys on the room’s communicator desk. It was possible — certain — that the scramble code he used would be repeated elsewhere in the hotel and the supposed privacy attained by scrambling thereby breached at once. This did not matter; he would have his boss disconnect and call back with a different scramble from the other end. To be sure, the call code of the station to which he was reporting would thereby be breached, but it was more than worthwhile to expend and discard one relay station to get this message through.
Scramble pattern set up, he coded — not New Washington, but the relay station he had selected. A girl’s face showed on the screen. “New Age service, sir — Were you scrambling?"
“Yes."
“I am veree sorree, sir. The scrambling circuits are being repaired, I can scramble for you from the main board."
“No, thanks, I’ll call in clear."
“I yam ve-ree sor-ree, sir."
There was one clear-code he could use — to be used only for crash priority. This was crash priority. Very well —
He punched the keys again without scrambling and waited. The same girl’s face appeared presently. “I am verree soiree, sir; that code does not reply. May I help you?"
“You might send up a carrier pigeon." He cleared the board.
The cold breath on the back of his neck was stronger now; he decided to do what he could to make it awkward to kill him just yet. He reached back into his mind and coded in clear the Star-Times.
No answer.
He tried the Clarion — again no answer.
No point in beating his head against it; they did not intend to let him talk outside to anyone. He rang for a bellman, sat down in an easy chair, switched it to “shallow massage," and luxuriated happily in the chair’s tender embrace. No doubt about it; the New Age did have the best mechanos in town — his bath had been wonderful; this chair was superb. Both the recent austerities of Moon Colony and the probability that this would be his last massage added to his pleasure.
The door dilated and a bellman came in — about his own size, Gilead noted. The man’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch on seeing Gilead’s oyster-naked condition. “You want company?"
Gilead stood up and moved toward him. “No, dearie," he said grinning, “I want you" — at which he sank three stiffened fingers in the man’s solar plexus.
As the man grunted and went down Gilead chopped him in the side of the neck with the edge of his hand.
The shoulders of the jacket were too narrow and the shoes too large; nevertheless two minutes later
“Captain Gilead" had followed “Joel Abner" to oblivion and Joe, temporary and freelance bellman, let himself out of the room. He regretted not being able to leave a tip with his predecessor.
He sauntered past the passengers lifts, firmly misdirected a guest who had stopped him, and found the service elevator. By it w
as a door to the “quick drop." He opened it, reached out and grasped a waiting pulley belt, and, without stopping to belt himself into it, contenting himself with hanging on, he stepped off the edge. In less time than it would have taken him to parachute the drop he was picking himself up off the cushions in the hotel basement and reflecting that lunar gravitation surely played hob with a man’s leg muscles.
He left the drop room and started out in an arbitrary direction, but walking as if he were on business and belonged where he was — any exit would do and he would find one eventually.
He wandered in and out of the enormous pantry, then found the freight door through which the pantry was supplied.
When he was thirty feet from it, it closed and an alarm sounded. He turned back.
He encountered two policemen in one of the many corridors under the giant hotel and attempted to brush on past them — One of them stared at him, then caught his arm. “Captain Gilead —"
Gilead tried to squirm away, but without showing any skill in the attempt. “What’s the idea?"
“You are Captain Gilead."
“And you’re my Aunt Sadie. Let go of my arm, copper."
The policeman fumbled in his pocket with his other hand, pulled out a notebook, Gilead noted that the other officer had moved a safe ten feet away and had a Markheim gun trained on him.
“You, Captain Gilead," the first officer droned, “are charged on a sworn complaint with offering a counterfeit five-pluton note at or about thirteen hours this date at the Grand Concourse drugstore in this city. You are cautioned to come peacefully and are advised that you need not speak at this time. Come along."
The charge might or might not have something to it, thought Gilead; he had not examined closely the money in the substituted wallet. He did not mind being booked, now that the microfilm was out of his possession; to be in an ordinary police station with nothing more sinister to cope with than crooked cops and dumb desk sergeants would be easy street compared with Runt Company searching for him.
On the other hand the situation was too pat, unless the police had arrived close on his heels and found the stripped bellman, gotten his story and started searching.
The second policeman kept his distance and did not lower the Markheim gun. That made other consideration academic. “Okay, I’ll go," he protested. “You don’t have to twist my arm that way. *
They went up to the weather level and out to the street — and not once did the second cop drop his guard. Gilead relaxed and waited. A police car was balanced at the curb. Gilead stopped. “I’ll walk," he said. “The nearest station is just around the comer. I want to be booked in my own precinct."
He felt a teeth-chattering chill as the blast from the Markheim hit him; he pitched forward on his face.
He was coming to, but still could not coordinate, as they lifted him out of the car. By the time he found himself being half-carried, half-marched down a long corridor he was almost himself again, but with a gap in his memory. He was shoved through a door which clanged behind him. He steadied himself and looked around.
“Greetings, friend," a resonant voice called out. “Drag up a chair by the fire."
Gilead blinked, deliberately slowed himself down, and breathed deeply. His healthy body was fighting off the effects of the Markheim bolt; he was almost himself.
The room was a cell, old-fashioned, almost primitive. The front of the cell and the door were steel bars; the walls were concrete. Its only furniture, a long wooden bench, was occupied by the man who had spoken. He was fiftyish, of ponderous frame, heavy features set in a shrewd, good-natured expression. He was lying back on the bench, head pillowed on his hands, in animal ease. Gilead had seen him before.
“Hello, Dr. Baldwin."
The man sat up with a flowing economy of motion that moved his bulk as little as possible. “I’m not Dr. Baldwin — I’m not Doctor anything, though my name is Baldwin." He stared at Gilead. “But I know you — seen some of your lectures,"
Gilead cocked an eyebrow. “A man would seem naked around the Association of Theoretical Physicists without a doctor’s degree — and you were at their last meeting."
Baldwin chuckled boomingly. “That accounts for it — that has to be my cousin on my father’s side, Hartley M. — stuffy citizen Hartley. I’ll have to try to take the curse off the family name, now that I’ve met you. Captain." He stuck out a huge hand. “Gregory Baldwin, 'Kettle Belly’ to my friends. New and used helicopters is as close as I come to theoretical physics. 'Kettle Belly Baldwin, King of the Kopters’ — you must have seen my advertising."
“Now that you mention it, I have."
Baldwin pulled out a card. “Here. If you ever need one, I’ll give you a ten percent off for knowing old Hartley, Matter of fact, I can do right well by you in a year-old Curtiss, a family car without a mark on it."
Gilead accepted the card and sat down. “Not at the moment, thanks. You seem to have an odd sort of office, Mr. Baldwin."
Baldwin chuckled again. “In the course of a long life these things happen. Captain. I won’t ask you why you are here or what you are doing in that monkey suit. Call me Kettle Belly."
“Okay." Gilead got up and went to the door. Opposite the cell was a blank wall; there was no one in sight. He whistled and shouted — no answer.
“What’s itching you, Captain?" Baldwin asked gently.
Gilead turned. His cellmate had dealt a solitaire hand on the bench and was calmly playing.
“I’ve got to raise the turnkey and send for a lawyer."
“Don’t fret about it. Let’s play some cards." He reached in a pocket. “I’ve got a second deck; how about some Russian bank?"
“No, thanks. I’ve got to get out of here." He shouted again — still no answer.
“Don’t waste your lung power. Captain," Baldwin advised him. “They’ll come when it suits them and not a second before. I know. Come play with me; it passes the time." Baldwin appeared to be shuffling the two decks; Gilead could see that he was actually stacking the cards. The deception amused him; he decided to play — since the truth of Baldwin’s advice was so evident.
“If you don’t like Russian bank," Kettle Belly went on, “here is a game I learned as a kid." He paused and stared into Gilead’s eyes. “It’s instructive as well as entertaining, yet it’s simple, once you catch on to it." He started dealing out the cards. “It makes a better game with two decks, because the black cards don’t mean anything — Just the twenty-six red cards in each deck count — with the heart suit coming first. Each card scores according to its position in that sequence, the ace of hearts is one and the king of hearts counts thirteen; the ace of diamonds is next at fourteen and so on. Savvy?"
“Yes"
“And the blacks don’t count. They’re blanks ,,, spaces. Ready to play?"
“What are the rules?"
“We’ll deal out one hand for free; you’ll learn faster as you see it. Then, when you’ve caught on, I’ll play you for a half interest in the atomics trust — or ten bits in cash." He resumed dealing, laying the cards out rapidly in columns, five to a row. He paused, finished. “It’s my deal, so it’s your count. See what you get."
It was evident that Baldwin’s stacking had brought the red cards into groups, yet there was no evident advantage to it, nor was the count especially high — nor low. Gilead stared at it, trying to figure out the man’s game. The cheating, as cheating seemed too bold to be probable.
Suddenly the cards jumped at him, arranged themselves in a meaningful array. He read:
XTHXY
CANXX
XXXSE
HEARX
XUSXX
The fact that there were only two fives-of-hearts available had affected the spelling but the meaning was clear. Gilead reached for the cards. “I’ll try one. I can beat that score." He dipped into the tips belonging to the suit’s owner. “Ten bits it is."
Baldwin covered it. Gilead shuffled, making even less attempt to cover up than had Bald
win. He dealt:
WHATS
XXXXX
XYOUR
GAMEX
XXXXX
Baldwin shoved the money toward him and anted again. “Okay, my turn for revenge." He laid out:
XXIMX
XONXX
YOURX
XXXXX
XSIDEX
“I win again," Gilead announced gleefully. “Ante up." He grabbed the cards and manipulated them:
YEAHX
XXXXX
PROVE
XXITX
XXXXX
Baldwin counted and said, “You’re too smart for me. Gimme the cards." He produced another ten-bit piece and dealt again:
XXILX
HELPX
XXYOU
XGETX
OUTXX
“I should have cut the cards," Gilead complained, pushing the money over. “Let’s double the bets." Baldwin grunted and Gilead dealt again:
XNUTS
IMXXX
SAFER
XXINX
XGAOL
“I broke your luck," Baldwin gloated. “We’ll double it again?"
XUXRX
XNUTS
THISX
NOXXX
XJAIL
The deal shifted:
KEEPX
XTALK
INGXX
XXXXX
XBUDX
Baldwin answered:
THISX
XXXXX
XXNEW
AGEXX
XHOTL
As he stacked the cards again Gilead considered these new factors. He was prepared to believe that he was hidden somewhere in the New Age Hotel; in fact the counterproposition that his opponents had permitted two ordinary cops to take him away to a normal city jail was most unlikely — unless they had the jail as fully under control as they quite evidently had the hotel. Nevertheless the point was not proven. As for Baldwin, he might be on Gilead’s side; more probably he was planted as an agent provocateur — or he might be working for himself.
The permutations added up to six situations, only one of which made it desirable to accept Baldwin’s offer for help in a Jail break — said situation being the least likely of the six.
Nevertheless, though he considered Baldwin a liar, net, he tentatively decided to accept. A static situation brought him no advantage; a dynamic situation — any dynamic situation — he might turn to his advantage. But more data were needed. “These cards are sticky as candy," he complained. “You letting your money ride?"
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