Police Your Planet

by Lester Del Rey

  Chapter VI

  SEALED LETTER

  In the few days at the short-lived Nineteenth Precinct, Bruce Gordon hadbegun to feel like a cop again, but the feeling disappeared as hereported in at Captain Isaiah Trench's Seventh Precinct. Trench had oncebeen a colonel in the Marines, before a court-martial and sundryunpleasantnesses had driven him off Earth. His dark, scowling face andlean body still bore a military air.

  He looked Bruce Gordon over sourly. "I've been reading your record. Itstinks. Making trouble for Jurgens--could have been charged as falsearrest. No co-operation with your captain until he forced it; out in thesticks beating up helpless men. Now you come crawling back to your onlyfriend, Isaacs. Well, I'll give it a try. But step out of line and I'llhave you cleaning streets with your bare hands. All right, _Corporal_Gordon. Dismissed. Get to your beat."

  Gordon grinned wryly at the emphasis on his title. No need to ask whathad happened to Murdoch's recommendation. He joined Izzy in the lockerroom, summing up the situation.

  "Yeah." Izzy looked worried, his thin face pinched in. "Maybe I didn'tdo you a favor, gov'nor, pulling you here. I dunno. I got some pics ofTrench from a guy I know. That's how I got my beat so fast in theSeventh. But Trench ain't married, and I guess I've used up the touch.Maybe I could try it, though."

  "Forget it," Gordon told him. "I'll work it out somehow."

  The beat was a gold mine. It lay through the section where Gordon hadfirst tried his luck on Mars. There were a dozen or so gambling joints,half a dozen cheap saloons, and a fair number of places listed asrooming houses, though they made no bones about the fact that all theirpermanent inhabitants were female. Then the beat swung off, past a rowof small businesses and genuine rooming houses, before turning back tothe main section.

  They began in the poorer section. It wasn't the day to collect the"tips" for good service, which had been an honest attempt to promotegood police service before it became a racket. But they were meteverywhere by sullen faces. Izzy explained it. The city had passed a newpoll tax--to pay for election booths, supposedly--and had made thepolice collect it. Murdoch must have disregarded the order, but the restof the force had been busy helping the administration.

  But once they hit the main stem, things were mere routine. The gamblingjoints took it for granted that beat cops had to be paid, and consideredit part of their operating expense. The only problem was that Fats'Place was the first one on the list. Gordon didn't expect to be toowelcome there.

  There was no sign of the thug, but Fats came out of his back office justas Gordon reached the little bar. He came over, nodded, picked up a cupand dice and began shaking them.

  "High man for sixty," he said automatically, and expertly rolledbull's-eyes for a two. "Izzy said you'd be around. Sorry my man drewthat _knife_ on you the last time, Corporal."

  Gordon rolled an eight, pocketed the bills, and shrugged. "Accidentswill happen, Fats."

  "Yeah." The other picked up the dice and began rolling sevens absently."How come you're walking beat, anyhow? With what you pulled here, youshould have bought a captaincy."

  Gordon told him briefly. The man chuckled grimly. "Well, that's Mars,"he said, and turned back to his private quarters.

  Mostly, it was routine work. They came on a drunk later, collapsed in analley. But the muggers had apparently given up before Izzy and Gordonarrived, since the man had his wallet clutched in his hand. Gordonreached for it, twisting his lips.

  Izzy stopped him. "It ain't honest, gov'nor. If the gees in the wagonclean him, or the desk man gets it, that's their business. But I'm goingto run a straight beat, or else!"

  That was followed by a call to remove a berserk spaceman from one of theso-called rooming houses. Gordon noticed that workmen were busy settingup a heavy wooden gate in front of the entrance to the place. There werea lot of such preparations going on for the forthcoming elections.

  Then the shift was over. But Gordon wasn't too surprised when his reliefshowed up two hours late; he'd half-expected some such nastiness fromTrench. But he was surprised at the look on his tardy relief's face.

  The man seemed to avoid facing him, muttered, "Captain says report inperson at once," and swung out of the scooter and onto his beat withoutfurther words.

  Gordon was met there by blank faces and averted looks, but someonenodded toward Trench's office, and he went inside. Trench sat chewing ona cigar. "Gordon, what does Security want with you?"

  "Security? Not a damned thing, if I can help it. They kicked me offEarth on a yellow ticket, if that's what you mean."

  "Yeah." Trench shoved a letter forward; it bore the "official business"seal of Solar Security, and was addressed to Corporal Bruce Gordon,Nineteenth Police Precinct, Marsport. Trench kept his eyes on it, hisface filled with suspicion and the vague fear most men had for Security.

  "Yeah," he said again. "Okay, probably routine. Only next time, Gordon,put the _facts_ on your record with the Force. If you're a deportee, itshould show up. That's all!"

  Bruce Gordon went out, holding the envelope. The warning in Trench'svoice wasn't for any omission on his record, he knew. He shoved theenvelope into his belt pocket and waited until he was in his own roombefore opening it.

  It was terse, and unsigned.

  _Report expected, overdue. Failure to observe duty will result in permanent resettlement to Mercury._

  He swore, coldly and methodically, while his stomach dug knots initself. The damned, stupid, blundering fools! That was all Trench andthe police gang had to see; it was obvious that the letter had beenopened. Sure, report at once. Drop a letter in the mailbox, and the nextmorning it would be turned over to Commissioner Arliss' office. Reportor be kicked off to a planet that Security felt enough worse than Marsto use as punishment! Report _and_ find Mars a worse place than Mercurycould ever be.

  He felt sick as he stood up to find paper and pen and write a terse,factual account of his own personal doings--minus any hint of anythingwrong with the system here. Security might think it was enough for themoment, and the local men might possibly decide it a mere requiredformality. At least it would stall things off for a while....

  But Gordon knew now that he could never hope to get back to Earthlegally. That vague promise by Security was so much hogwash; yet it wassurprising how much he had counted on it.

  He tore the envelope from Security into tiny shreds, too small forMother Corey to make sense of, and went out to mail the letter, feelingthe few bills in his pocket. As usual, less than a hundred credits.

  He passed a sound truck blatting out a campaign speech by candidateNolan, filled with too-obvious facts about the present administration,together with hints that Wayne had paid to have Nolan assassinated.Gordon saw a crowd around it and was surprised, until he recognized themas Rafters--men from the biggest of the gangs supporting Wayne. The fewcitizens on the street who drifted toward the truck took a good look atthem and moved on hastily.

  It seemed incredible that Wayne could be re-elected, though, even withthe power of the gangs. Nolan was probably a grafter, too; but he'd atleast be a change, and certainly the citizens were aching for that.

  The next day his relief was later. Gordon waited, trying to swallowtheir petty punishments, but it went against the grain. Finally, hebegan making the rounds, acting as his own night man. The owners of thejoints didn't care whether they paid the second daily dole to the sameman or another, but they wouldn't pay it again that same night. He'dmanaged to tap most of the places before his relief showed. He made nocomment, but dutifully filled out the proper portion of both takes forthe Voluntary Donation box. It wouldn't do his record any good withTrench, but it should put an end to the overtime.

  Trench, however, had other ideas. The overtime continued, but it wasdull after that--which made it even more tiring. But the time he took aspecial release out to the spaceport was the worst. Seeing the big shipreadying for take-off back to Earth....

  Then it was the day before election. The street was already bristlingwith barricade
s around the entrances, and everything ran with a lastdesperate restlessness, as if there would be no tomorrow. The operatorsall swore that Wayne would be elected, but seemed to fear a miracle. Onthe poorer section of the beat, there was a spiritless hope that Nolanmight come in with his reform program. Men who would normally have beenpunctilious about their payments were avoiding Bruce Gordon, if in hopethat, by putting it off a day or so, they could run into a period whereno such payment would ever be asked--or a smaller one, at least. And hewas too tired to chase them down. His collections had been falling offalready, and he knew that he'd be on the carpet for that, if he didn'tdo better. It was a rich territory, and required careful mining; even asthe week had gone, he still had more money in his wallet than he hadexpected.

  But there had to be still more before night.

  He was lucky; he came on a pusher working one of the better houses--longafter his collections should have been over. He knew by the man's facethat no protection had been paid higher up. The pusher was well-heeled;Gordon confiscated the money.

  This time, Izzy made no protest. Lifting the roll of anyone outside theenforced part of Mars' laws was apparently honest, in his eyes. Henodded, and pointed to the man's belt. "Pick up the snow, too."

  The pusher's face paled. He must have had his total capital with him,because stark ruin shone in his eyes. "Good God, Sergeant," he pleaded,"leave me something! I'll make it right. I'll cut you in. I gotta havesome of that for myself!"

  Gordon grimaced. He couldn't work up any great sympathy for anyone whomade a living out of drugs.

  They cleaned the pusher, and left him sitting on the steps, a picture ofslumped misery. Izzy nodded approval. "Let him feel it a while. No sensejailing him yet. Bloody fool had no business starting without lining thegroove. Anyhow, we'll get a bunch of credits for the stuff when we turnit in."

  "Credits?" Gordon asked.

  "Sure." Izzy patted the little package. "We get a quarter value. Captainprobably gets fifty per cent from one of the pushers who's lined withhim. Everybody's happy."

  "Why not push it ourselves?" Gordon asked in disgust.

  "Wouldn't be honest, gov'nor. Cops are supposed to turn it in."

  Trench was almost jovial when he weighed the package and examined it tofind how much it had been cut. He issued them slips, which they added aspart of the contributions. "Good work--you, too, Gordon. Best week inthe territory for a couple of months. I guess the citizens like you, theway they treat you." He laughed at his stale joke, and Gordon waswilling to laugh with him. The credit on the dope had paid for most ofthe contributions. For once, he had money to show for the week.

  Then Trench motioned Bruce Gordon forward, and dismissed Izzy with a nodof his head. "Something to discuss, Gordon. Isaacs, we're holding alittle meeting, so wait around. You're a sergeant already. But, Gordon,I'm offering you a chance. There aren't enough openings for all the goodmen, but.... Oh, bother the soft soap. We're still short on electionfunds, so there's a raffle. The two men holding winning tickets getbucked up to sergeants. A hundred credits a ticket. How many?"

  He frowned suddenly as Gordon counted out three bills. "You have abetter chance with more tickets. A _much_ better chance!"

  The hint was hardly veiled. Gordon stuck the tickets into his wallet.Mars was a fine planet for picking up easy money--but holding it wasanother matter.

  Trench counted the money and put it away. "Thanks, Gordon. That fills_my_ quota. Look, you've been on overtime all week. Why not skip themeeting? Isaacs can brief you, later. Go out and get drunk, orsomething."

  The comparative friendliness of the peace offering was probably theultimate in graciousness from Trench. Idly, Gordon wondered what kind ofpressures the captains were under; it must be pretty stiff, judging bythe relief the man was showing at making quota.

  "Thanks," he said, but his voice was bitter in his ears. "I'll go homeand rest. Drinking costs too much for what I make. It's a good thing youdon't have income tax here."

  "We do," Trench said flatly; "forty per cent. Better make out a formnext week, and start paying it regularly. But you can deduct yourcontributions here."

  Gordon got out before he learned more good news.