The Vortex Blaster

by Edward E Smith

  “Me? ME?” Number One demanded. The towering rage, which he had been scarcely able to control, subsided into a warily intense speculation. “How did he find out about me? Somebody’ll burn for this!”

  “I dunno, boss, but it looks like you said a mouthful about having to do something about him. We got to make an example of somebody, boss—or else—in my book it’d better be 92. He’s organizing, sure as hell, and if we don’t knock him off it’ll spread fast.”

  “Hm…m…m. Yes, but just him personally, not his place. I’m not afraid of any evidence he can leave, of itself, but in connection with the other thing it might be bad. His place is too big; too centrally located. No matter what time of night it goes off it’ll kill too many people and do too much damage. Yellow Castle might dump us instead of trying to ride out such a storm.”

  “Yeah, they might, at that. Prob’ly would. And the dogooders might get some of them Srizonified Lensmen in here besides. But an ordinary bomb would do the job.”

  “No. Got to be a vortex. We promised ’em an atomic flare, so that’s what it’s got to be. It doesn’t have to be 92, though.

  We can get away easy enough with killing a few people, so I’d say somebody in the outskirts—53 would be as good as any. So tell 53 his place gets it at midnight tomorrow night, and the fewer people in it the more will stay alive.”

  “Check. And I’ll take care of 92?”

  “Of course. You don’t have to be told every move to make.”

  “Just wanted to make sure, is all. What do I do in the big fireworks?” It was clear that the underling was intensely curious about the phenomenon, but his curiosity was not to be satisfied.

  “Nothing,” his chief informed him flatly. “That isn’t your dish. Now we’ll eat.”

  Number One stopped talking, but be did not stop thinking; and Nadine could read, and Vesta could transcribe, thoughts as well as words.

  “Besides, it’s about time for 31 to earn some of the credits we’re paying him,” was the grimly savage thought.

  This thought was accompanied by a picture, which Nadine spread in full in Cloud’s mind. A tall, lean, gray Tellurian was aiming a mechanism—the details of which were so vague that it could have been anything from a vest-pocket flash-pencil up to a half-track mobile projector—at a power-plant, which immediately and enthusiastically went out of control in a blindingly incandescent flare of raw energy.

  Fairchild!

  Cloud’s mind raced. That vortex on Deka hadn’t been accidental. then, even though there had been no evidence—no suspicion—even the Lensmen hadn’t guessed that the radiationist had been anything other than a very minor cog in Graves’ thionite-producing machine! Nobody except Fairchild knew what he did or how he did it—the mob must have tried to find out, too, but he wouldn’t give—but this stuff was very definitely for the future; not for now.

  “QX, girls. A nice job—thanks,” he said. “Now, Vesta, please tape the actual facts and the actual words of the interview—none of the pictures or guesses—in Middle Plateau Tomingan. Wherever possible, bracket real names and addresses with the code numbers. Tommie and Jim can help you on that.”

  She did so.

  When they came to that part of the transcription dealing with Number Ninety Two, Jim stiffened and swelled in rage.

  “Ask him if that’s an accurate report,” Cloud directed.

  “It’s accurate enough as far as it goes,” Jim boomed. His voice, deeper and louder than Tommie’s, and not nearly as musical, almost shook the walls. “But he left out half of it. What I really told him would have burned all the tape off of that recorder.”

  “But they left in that…that awful one, three times.” Tommie, tough as she was, was shocked. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Srizonified?” Cloud whispered to Vesta. “It sounded bad, but not that hot. Is it?”

  “Yes, the hottest in the language. I never saw it in print, and heard it only once, and that was by accident. Like most such things, though, it doesn’t translate—‘descended from countless generations of dwellers in stinking, unflowering mud’ is as close as I can come to it in Spanish.”

  “QX. Finish up the tape and make two copies of it.”

  When the copies were ready Cloud handed them to Tommie.

  “Tell him to take one of these down to the Tomingan equivalent of the D.A.’s office the first thing in the morning,” he instructed Vesta. “The other ought to go to a big law firm—an honest one, if she knows of any. Now ask Jim what he thinks he’s going to do.”

  “I’m going to get a pair of blasters and…”

  “Yeah?” Cloud’s biting monosyllable, so ably translated by the Vegian, stopped him in mid-sentence. “What chance do you think you stand of getting home tonight in one piece? Your copter is probably mined right now, and they’ve undoubtedly made arrangements to blast you if you leave here any other way, even on foot. If you want to stay alive, though, I’ve got a suggestion to make.”

  “You may be right, sir.” Jim’s bluster died away as he began really to think. “Do you see a way out?”

  “Yes. Ordinary citizens don’t wear armor here, any more than anywhere else, so ordinary gangsters don’t use semi-portables. So, when you leave here, go to Tommie’s room instead of out. They’ll lay for you, of course, but while they’re waiting Tommie will go out to our ship and bring back my G-P armor. You put it on, walk out openly, and take a ground-car—not a copter—to the ship. If they know armor they won’t shoot at you, because you could shoot back. When you get to the ship go in, lock the port behind you, and stay there until I tell you to come out.”

  Jim, influenced visibly by the pleasant possibility of shooting back, accepted the plan joyously; and, after making sure that there were no spies or spy-rays on watch, the two Tomingans left the room.

  A few minutes later, with the same precaution, Vesta and the Manarkan went to their own rooms; but they were on hand again after breakfast next morning.

  “You know, of course, that you have no evidence admissible in even an honest court,” Nadine began. “You knew it when you changed your mind about having a Tomingan voice, not Vesta’s, on those tapes.”

  “Yes. Communicator-taps are out—violation of privacy.”

  “Exactly. And telepathy is worse. Any attempt tor introduce telepathic testimony, on almost any non-telepathic world, does more harm than good. So, beyond establishing the fact of guilt in your own mind—a fact already self-evident, since such outrages can happen only when both courts and police are corrupt from top to bottom—I fail to see what you hope to gain.”

  “Wouldn’t a Tomingan Lensman be interested?”

  “There are none. There never have been any.”

  “Well, then, I’ll take it up myself, with…”

  Cloud stopped in mid-thought. With whom? He could talk to Phil Strong, certainly, but he wouldn’t get anywhere. He knew, as well as Nadine did, that the Galactic Patrol would not interfere with purely local politics unless something of inter-systemic scope was involved. The Galactic Council held, and probably rightly, that any people got the kind of local government they deserved. He certainly couldn’t expect the Patrol to over-ride planetary sovereignty in regard to a thing that hadn’t happened yet! He wrenched his mind away.

  “Having any trouble following her, Nadine?” he asked.

  “No. She’s just leaving the fast-way now; going into his office.”

  Thus, through Nadine, Cloud accompanied Tommie into the office of the District Attorney, saw her tender the spool of tape, heard her explain in stormy language what it was.

  “How did you get hold of it?” the D.A. demanded.

  “How do you suppose?” Tommie shot back. “Do we have to come down to City Hall and take out a license to hang an ear onto such a stinking crumb, such a notorious mobster and general all-round heel as Number One is? Public Enemy Number One, it ought to be!”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that you would,” the politician soothed. He ha
d been thinking fast. “I’ll run this tape as soon as I can take a minute alone in my chambers, and I promise you full and fast action. They’ve gone too far, this time. Just what, specifically, do you want me to do?”

  “I’m no lawyer, so I don’t know who does what, but I want this Protective Association junked and I want those murderers arrested. Today.”

  “Some of these matters lie outside the province of this office, but I can and will take initiatory steps. No one will be harmed, I assure you.”

  Apparently satisfied, Tommie left the D.A.’s office, but Nadine did not leave the D.A.’s mind. This was what the Blaster was after!

  Sure enough, as soon as Tommie was out of sight, the official dashed into his private office and called Number One.

  “One, they hung an ear on you last night!” he exclaimed, as soon as connection was made. “How come you didn’t…”

  “Horsefeathers!” the gangster snarled. “Who d’ya think you’re kidding?”

  “But they did! I’ve got a copy of it right here.”

  “Play it!”

  The tape was played, and it was very clear that it was in no Tomingan’s voice.

  “No, it wasn’t an ear,” the D.A. admitted.

  “And I was blocked against spy-rays,” said Number One, “so it must have been a snooper. A snooper with a voice. Manarkans are snoopers, but they can’t talk. Most snoopers can’t…except maybe Ordoviks. There were a couple of them around last night. Can Ordoviks talk? And Chickladorians—are they snoopers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know either, but I’ll find out, and when I do I’ll go gunning.”

  Tommie came back to Cloud’s room and her serenity, skin-deep at best, vanished completely as the new tape was played.

  “Condemn and blast that lying, slimy, two-faced, double-crossing snake!” she roared. “I’ll call out the…”

  “You won’t either—pipe down!” Cloud ordered, sharply. “Mob rule never settled anything. That’s what you expected, isn’t it?”

  “Well…more or less, I suppose…yes.”

  “QX. We got something to work on now, but we need more, and we’ve got only today to get it. Who’s the crookedest judge in town—the one most apt to be in on this kind of a deal?”

  “Trellis. High Judge Rose Trellis of the Enchanting…”

  “Skip the embellishments. Take both of these tapes to Judge Trellis and insist on seeing him at once.”

  “It isn’t a him—she’s a her.”

  “Her, then. Make it snappy. And don’t blow up if she gives you the brush-off. We’re alter data. And on your way back, pick up that newspaper editor and bring him along.”

  Chapter IX

  TROUBLE ON TOMINGA

  TOMMIE LEFT, accompanied mentally by Nadine, and reached the judge’s antechamber; with Vesta taping in Middle-Plateau Tomingan everything that occurred. The approach was difficult, and Tommie’s temper grew shorter and shorter.

  “Get out of my way!” she bellowed finally at the sergeant-at-arms barring her way to the judicial Presence, in a voice that rattled the windows and was audible above four blocks of city traffic. “Or, shoot, if you want to get yourself and this building and half of Mingia blown clear up into the stratosphere! Jump! Before I take that blaster and shove it so far down your throat it’ll hit day-before-yesterday’s breakfast!”

  The guard did not have quite enough nerve to shoot, and Tommie almost wrenched the door of the judge’s inner office off its hinges as she went in.

  “What’s this, pray? Get out! Sergeant-at…”

  “Shut up, Rose Trellis of the Enchanting Vistas of Exotic Blooms—you’re listening, not talking. Here’s two tapes of what Number One and his misbegotten scum have been doing. Play ’em! And then do something about ’em! And listen, you lying, double-crossing, back-biting slime-lizard!” Tommie’s prettily-made-up face was in shocking contrast to the venemous fury in Tommie’s eyes as she leaned over the judge’s massive desk until nose was a scant ten inches from nose. “If that atomic blast goes off tonight you and your whole Srizonified crew will wish to all your devils you’d never been born!”

  Whirling around, Tommie strode out; nor did anyone attempt to stop her. No one knew what would happen if they did; and no one cared to find out.

  Judge Trellis did not play the tapes. In panic fashion she called the District Attorney, who promptly made it a three-way with Number One. The three talked busily for minutes, then met in person, together with several lesser lights, in a heavily-guarded room. This conference, the subject matter of which was so obvious as to require no detailing here, went on for a long time.

  So long, in fact, that Tommie and the newspaper man got back to Cloud’s hotel room while Vesta was still taping a word-by-word report of the proceedings. Tommie was subdued, almost apologetic.

  “I know you told me not to blow up, Captain Cloud, but they made me so mad I couldn’t help it.”

  “In this case just as well you did; maybe better. You scared her into calling a meeting, and they’ve spilled every bean in the pot. We’ve got exactly what we wanted—enough to stop that gang right in its tracks. Now, as soon as the girls get the last of it, we’ll let your editor in on it.”

  It was soon over, and Cloud, after a quick run-down of the situation and a play-back of parts of the tapes for the newshawk’s benefit, concluded:—

  “So, over the long pull, the issue isn’t—can’t be—in doubt. Public opinion will be aroused. There are honest judges, there are a lot of honest cops. At the next election this corrupt regime will be thrown out of office. However, that election is a year away, the present powers-that-be are all in the syndicate, and we must do something today to stop the destruction scheduled for tonight. Little Flower-and-so-on tells me that you’re a crusading type, fighting a losing battle against this mob—that they’ve got you just about whipped—so I thought you would be interested in taking a slug at ’em by getting out an extra—strong enough to stir up enough public sentiment so they wouldn’t dare to go ahead. Would you like to do that?”

  “Would I?” The newsman grinned wolfishly. “I’ll get out the extra, yes; but I’ll do a lot more than that. I’ll print a hundred thousand dodgers and drop ’em from copters. I’ll have blimps dragging streamers all over the sky. I’ll buy time on every radio and tri-di station in town—have the juiciest bits of these tapes broadcast, every hour on the hour. Mister, I’ll tear this town wide open before sundown tonight!”

  He left, breathing fire and sulphurous smoke, and Cloud made motions to attract the Manarkan’s attention.

  “Nadine? These Tomingans take things big, don’t they? All to the good, with one exception—will any repercussions—flare-backs—hit you? Those characters are tough, and will be desperate, and I wouldn’t want to put you in line with a blaster.”

  “No…almost certainly not,” Nadine replied, after a minute of thought. “They are looking for a telepath with a voice, which they won’t find on Tominga. They know Manarkans well—many of us live here permanently—and I’m quite sure that none of the gang would suspect such an unheard-of thing as Vesta and I have been doing. They are not imaginative, and such a thing never happened before—not here, at least.”

  “No? Why not? What’s strange about it?”

  “The whole situation is new—unique. This is probably the first time in history that these exact circumstances—especially in regard to personnel—have come together. Consider, please, the ingredients: a real and bitter grievance, victims willing and anxious to take drastic action, a sympathetic telepath who is also an expert in shorthand, a master linguist, and, above all, a director or programmer—you—both able and willing to fit the parts together so that they work.”

  “Um…m…m. Never thought of it in that way. Could be, I guess. Well, all we can do now is wait and see what happens.”

  They waited, and saw. The crusading editor did everything he had promised. The extra hit the streets, its headlines screaming �
��CORRUPTION!” in the biggest type possible to use. The taped conversations, with names, amounts, times, and places, were printed in full. The accompanying editorial should have been written with sulphuric acid on asbestos paper. The leaflets, gaily littering the city, were even more vitriolic. Every hour, on the hour, speakers gave out what sound-trucks were blaring continuously—irrefutable proof that the city of Mingia was being run by a corrupt, rotten, vicious machine.

  Mingia’s citizens responded, but not quite as enthusiastically as the Blaster, from his limited acquaintance with the breed, had expected. There was some organizing, some demonstrating; but there was also quite a lot of “So what? If they don’t, some other gang of politicians will.”

  Cloud, however, when he went to his rooms after supper, was well pleased with what he had seen. They couldn’t blast 53, not after the events of the afternoon. The Chickladorians and Vesta and Nadine, when they came in, agreed with him. The situation was under control. They were tired, they said. It had been a long, hard day, and they were going to bit the sack. They left.

  Cloud intended to stay awake until midnight, just to see what would happen, but he didn’t. He was tired, too, and within a couple of minutes after he relaxed, alone, he was sound asleep in his chair.

  Thus he did not hear the vicious thunder-clap of the atomic explosion at midnight; did not see the reflected brilliance of its glare. Nor did he hear the hurrying footsteps in the hotel’s corridors. What woke him up was the concussion that jarred the whole neighborhood when a half-ton bomb demolished the building which had been Number One’s headquarters.

  Cloud jumped up, then, and ran out into the hall and along it to Vesta’s room. He pounded. No answer. The door was unlocked. He opened it Vesta was not there!