“What’s your readiness status, Tom?” he asked. Then, he held up his hand. “Not on record, but in fact.”
“Coffee, Alex?” McGraw asked. Napier technically outranked him, so he was practicing some protocol of his own.
“Certainly,” Napier said and arranged himself in one of the large chairs in McGraw’s cabin.
As soon as they were comfortably situated, McGraw said, “We’re fine, Alex. I’ve stepped up re-supply to the First Battalion. We have the company you ordered on board the San Pablo, and I can load the rest of the brigade on two hours notice—combat ready.”
Napier nodded reflectively. “Good,” he said, then repeated it. “Good.”
“You expecting things to blow up, again?” McGraw asked.
Napier set down his cup and shifted his weight in the chair, so he could reach his pipe and tobacco. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said, carefully packing tobacco into the bowl, “so I went down to commo and monitored the traffic for a while. I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but I don’t like it, Tom. I don’t like it.”
Hugo Ingermann did not customarily drink, and almost never before cocktail hour, but it was past the middle of the afternoon, now, and he didn’t know what else to do. Besides that, the weather was hot and uncomfortable, he felt as though his brain had cooked inside his skull, and he could not recall the last time he had eaten.
It was dim and comfortable inside the bar. Ingermann rolled the cold highball glass across his forehead after he took his first swallow. He began to feel better, but he still didn’t have any idea what to do next.
There was a news broadcast on the. large communications screen at one end of the bar.
Ingermann decided he would listen to the news and have another drink.
When the barman brought him the audio outlet, he affixed the earpiece and plugged the other end into one of the pickup jacks across the front edge of the bar.
“… with more reports of street fights in Junktown. Authorities maintain that these incidents are unrelated, and say they expect the situation to quiet down with the onset of cooler weather—and cooler tempers.”
“Efforts to verify rumors of a sunstone strike on Beta are still unsuccessful at this hour. Colonial Governor Bennett Rainsford’s office issued a statement earlier today to the effect that the matter was still in the area of pure speculation. We’ll have tape on that a little later.”
Ingermann did not notice the person who slid silently onto the barstool next to him. An idea was about to form itself in his mind and he was trying to focus his attention on it.
“Meanwhile, the search for Hugo Ingermann continues, with police expecting an early arrest. Here with a live interview on that story is News Director Franklin Young. Frank…”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ingermann,” the man in the hat whispered. “May I join you?”
Ingermann jumped as though he had been stabbed. He turned to stare incredulously into the colorless eyes of the man next to him. There was terror on Ingermann’s face.
Joseph Weisberg made a reassuring gesture toward Ingermann as he signaled the barman.
Ingermann took a gulp from his drink.
The barman set down Weisberg’s drink in front of him, but Weisberg didn’t pick it up right away.
“Who—who are you?” Ingermann finally managed to stammer.
Weisberg smiled humorlessly. “Ah, “he said, “you don’t remember me, do you?”
Ingermann nodded dumbly.
“Well, it is a matter of no importance,” Weisberg said. “What I felt you should know this afternoon,” he leaned closer and lowered his voice still more, “is that Raul Laporte has taken a great interest in the state of your health.”
Ingermann turned pale. He knew what that meant. Ghu knew he had hired Laporte’s services in such matters himself, many, many times in the past.
Weisberg leaned forward and took a sip from his drink.
“Why—why are you telling me this?” he asked. It made no sense. Everyone in town, it seemed, was out to get him, yet here was this stranger giving him information that might well save his life.
Weisberg shrugged. “It is not an incident of great concern to me—one way or the other—but I felt you would consider it useful.”
Ingermann’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want in return?” he asked.
Weisberg shrugged again. “Nothing,” he said.
Ingermann still did not comprehend. There had to be a way out of this. Money, of course, could buy anything, but he had no way to get at his own—except for a few small sums he had put away in the event of just such a blowup.
Suddenly, the rest of the puzzle dropped in to place in his tormented mind. His face brightened. “Blowup,” he said softly.
“I beg your pardon?” Weisberg asked.
Ingermann didn’t hear him. “Blowup. Heat wave. Riot. Sunstones. Of course,” he said. Without another word, he slid off the barstool and scampered out the front door of the lounge.
The barman came hurrying over. “Hey,” he said. “That guy didn’t pay for his drinks.”
Weisberg smiled across the bar at him. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll take care of it and collect from him later.”
Chapter Forty-One
The Rev keyed the next item of data onto the screen. “We’ve had one hundred ninety-four arson fires this year, sixty-six in the past six weeks, and six last weekend,” he said to the group of men in his office. “Things are starting to strain.”
Emmet Taylor held up his index finger. “My cheese shop has been broken into twice this month,” he said, “and they didn’t even try to find money. They just stole some merchandise.”
“These crimes aren’t being committed by common thieves and footpads,” Floyd Kalisher said. “These people are getting hungry.”
“And there’s no work for them,” added Sam Quo.
Irv Schneider spoke up. “They’re borrowing money like crazy in my pawnshop,” he said, “on just about anything that can be carried. I know some of it is stolen, but there’s no way to prove it—so I have to look over each situation individually.”
“The saloon business has never been better,” Dan O’Hara remarked. “The place is packed most of the time—but it’s not a crowd that laughs and jokes and enjoys themselves. They mostly just sit and stare and mutter to each other.”
“What’s the government doing about this—if anything?” Mike Morgan asked.
The Rev shrugged. “As much as they can, from what I can tell,” the Rev said. “Governor Rainsford and Victor Grego both strike me as being decent, honest men—men who are caught in the middle. They’re spread pretty thin. The police are spread pretty thin—”
“—And we’re spread pretty thin,” George Patterson interrupted. “Every centisol I have is plowed into my business. If that goes up, I’d have to go find a job to support my family.”
“Except there are no jobs,” Sam Quo repeated.
The aircar grounded quietly on the esplanade, then lifted off a few inches to adjust its position so the light from above would fall on the contragravity housing.
Hugo Ingermann still had a few henchmen he felt he could trust. He peered anxiously out the door. Good, good. Early in the evening. Hot, sticky, uncomfortable weather. There was a splendidly large crowd of people outdoors tonight. These were his friends; they wouldn’t let the police get him.
He climbed out, carrying the audio pickup for the external hailing system, and hopped up on the contragravity housing. The esplanade lights shined down on him. “My… friends,” he began, and the crowd started to accumulate in front of him.
As Ingermann spoke, another aircar proceeded slowly north through Mallorysport, keeping low to the ground and moving under the trees in the open spaces whenever possible. In it were three rough-looking men and an accumulation of cataclysmite, incendiaries, and detonators. By the time it had wound its way to Mortgageville, Ingermann had the ever-increasing crowd in a very unhappy mood and was
about to reveal how they could alleviate their sufferings.
Lolita Lurkin burst into the Rev’s office. “Father, Father,” she gasped.
Everyone in the room turned toward her. There was a bruise on her left cheekbone and tearstreaks on her dirty face.
The Rev got quickly to his feet and came around the desk to her. “What is it, Lolita? “he asked anxiously. “What is it?”
“It’s Uncle Charley,” she blurted out. “He’s goin’ crazy. I tried t’ stop him, but he knocked me down the ramp.”
The Rev frowned. “But why, child?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He came runnin’ in to get his gun. I asked him what was goin’ on, and he said somethin’ about we, was all going to be rich—and then he knocked me down and ran out, again.” She started to cry. “I think he’s goin’ crazy.”
The Rev turned back to the group. He sighed. “I guess we can knock off working on the list of aims and goals,” he said. “Let’s see if we can keep the hatch down on this.”
The others were already moving toward the door.
“Lolita,” The Rev said, “you go down to the dispensary and have them take a look at you. And, stay here until I get back.”
Out on the esplanade, smoke was drifting low to the ground from several bonfires that had been lighted. The light from them flickered across Ingermann’s face. There was a strange look in his eyes.
“Citizens of Zarathustra!” he shouted. “We are all— all—citizens of the Federation. Zarathustra is Federation territory; we its citizens. The Federation doesn’t want you to be broke and without work, but the Colonial Government surely must; else they would do something about it. My friends, they haven’t lifted a finger! All this while they are sitting on a deposit of sunstones out on Beta—them and Old Man Holloway!—that is huge beyond imagination!”
He paused, to assess the muttering of agreement. “What right,” he said in measured tones, “has this damned jackleg government to tell us—its citizens—that we have no right to the comforts of life?” The sound of the hailer speakers echoed between the buildings. “My friends, there’s enough for everyone. Why should we go without? Why should we break our backs to dig sunstones, when they’re lying on Beta—waiting to be picked up?”
“Whatta we gonna do about it?” shouted a voice from the crowd.
Ingermann smiled, inhaling deeply. “Go out there and TAKE them!” he shrieked. “NOW!”
There was a moment of silence. “Take the sunstones!” the crowd, which had just turned into a mob, chorused raggedly.
The people began to break up, milling about and running in every direction at once—rushing home to get weapons and pile into anything they could put on contragravity.
The Rev found Charley Walker on the outskirts of the crowd, where he was gleefully jumping up and down. The Rev grabbed him by the shoulders. “Charley!” he shouted above the din of voices. “This is crazy!”
Charley glared at him. “Gettin’ rich ain’t crazy!” he barked.
“Can’t you see he’s just using you?” The Rev shouted.
Charley’s lip curled back from his upper teeth.
The Rev began to shake him by the shoulders, but he knew it was useless. “Charley! Charley! Use your head!”
Charley hit him in the jaw with a roundhouse punch.
The Rev fell to the pavement and the crowd surged over him.
Already, aircars, boats, jeeps, work buses, cargo scows, and anything else that would fly, were beginning to rise in clumps from the shack-rows, jumbled old log buildings, and the low buildings that made up the old part of Mallorysport. Their running lights and bottom floods bathed the esplanade and all of Junktown in an eerie light.
When Harry Steefer screened him, Victor Grego was tossing a ball back to Diamond, who sprang at it as though it was something to eat. He had brought some papers from the office to go over, but decided to play with Diamond for a while. He hadn’t spent as much time with Diamond lately as he might have, and Grego didn’t want him to feel neglected. Christiana had gone to the hospital to visit Gwen. When she returned, they would have cocktails while Diamond watched his favorite bloodthirsty ‘screenplay in the Fuzzy room, and then the three of them would have dinner together in the apartment. It would be a nice, quiet evening with everyone together.
When the screen chimed, Grego tossed the ball out onto the terrace through the open doors. Diamond galloped after it as fast as his little legs would carry him.
“Yes, Harry,” Grego said when the image cleared.
“Thought you ought to know, Victor,” Steefer said. “Most of Junktown is in the air—in a bob-tailed fleet of civilian vehicles. They’re heading for Beta to take all the sunstones they can lay their hands on.”
Grego compressed his mouth. So, things had finally cracked open down there. Well, a hot, uncomfortable night would be the time for it. “Do we know how this got started, Harry?” he asked.
“No one seems too sure, but the word is that Ingermann whipped the crowd into a mob frenzy,” Steefer said.
“Ingermann, Ingermann!” Grego exploded. “When we get that son of a khooghra, I’m going to hang him high.” He recovered his composure. “They can’t get out of Mallorysport, can they, Harry? The Colonial Constabulary is supposed to have the town sealed up tight.”
The image of Harry Steefer shook his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it, sir. Ferguson’s men have been doing just that, but we’re talking about hundreds of vehicles, here. Some of them are bound to get through. In fact, quite a few of them are bound to get through.”
“Are we lending a hand?” Grego asked.
“Mallorysport P.D. and us are doing as much as we can,” Steefer said. “But, there are some fires in Junktown, some street fights, and some reports of looting.”
Grego shook his head in disbelief. “So this disorganized gang is heading for North Beta to raid for sunstones. It’s like a—what did they call those little animals that committed suicide by the whole herd running over a cliff? Well, no matter, that’s what it is. Harry, they haven’t got a chance. They’re going up against trained Marines.”
“I know that,” Steefer said. “You know that; but, no one has told them that.”
“Has any of the rioting leaked up into Mallorysport, yet?” Grego asked.
Steefer shook his head. “Not yet,” he said, “but I’ve increased security around Company House. They may make a try for you, so we’re watching your residence very close. I don’t want you to leave your apartment without telling me. I’ll likely be here all night—or at least until this is over.”
“In that case,” Grego said, “you’d best put a couple more men on Miss Ramsey’s hospital room. They may make a try for her, too.”
“Good idea,” Steefer said.
“And, Harry,” Grego said.
“Yes, sir, “Steefer said.
“Christiana’s over there right now,” Grego said. “Send a Company Police vehicle for her and bring her back here.” He leaned back in the console chair. “Any other trials and tribulations?” he asked. “I mean, something minor, like a volcanic eruption in the center of town?”
Steefer smiled crookedly. “One other thing…“he said.
Grego didn’t like the tone of gallows humor in Harry Steefer’s voice. “Which is… ?”
“Mortgageville’s burning,” Steefer said. “Big fires. Has to be arson.”
Grego clenched his teeth. “Ghu’s guts!” he intoned.
As soon as the transmission cleared, Grego rushed out onto the north terrace. Silver-trimmed maroon Company air jeeps, with POLICE lettered on their sides, were already circling over Company House.
To the north of Mallorysport, great, leaping flames hundreds of feet high were dancing against the night sky, with clouds of dense, black smoke rising above them, already beginning to blot out the stars with a stygian curtain of darkness. Ingermann had unleashed the demons of hell and the misshapen ogres of brutality that still lived deep inside the Terran human
spirit, and their primal forebears were now cavorting for joy a few miles north of Mallorysport. Grego had the uneasy feeling that they were, perhaps, the shadows of things yet to come.
In the distance, darting lights showed the location of firefighting vehicles as they sought to close on the fires. One could occasionally catch a glimpse of one of them, illuminated from below by a new billow of flame or explosion.
Grego rolled his eyes upward. “Bill Zeckendorf is going to love this,” he said to himself.
Diamond had stopped playing with his now-forgotten ball and was watching, too. He thought it was a splendid show and spectacularly entertaining.
As soon as Alex Napier finished the communications abstract which a yeoman had just delivered to his cabin, he grabbed his tunic and began to put it back on. “Another quiet evening shot to Nifflheim,” he muttered. With his arm in one sleeve, he punched up a screen-call combination with that hand while he fumbled behind him for the other sleeve.
“Connie,” he said to the image of his Exec that came on screen, “have you seen this abstract?”
“Just finished reading it, Alex,” Captain Greibenfeld said. “I was just starting to call you.”
“Pull staff call in my office,” Napier said, “in thirty minutes—to include McGraw, his Exec, O’Bannon, and Helton.”
“An enlisted man?” Greibenfeld interrupted.
“I want his opinion,” Napier said coldly.
Greibenfeld said nothing.
“Signal Akerblad to put San Pablo ready to lift off on my order. Situation estimate from Steve Aelborg—he can refine it later, I want what he has in thirty minutes. When you find McGraw or his Exec, I want the rest of the Second and all of the Third Battalion to saddle up and stand by in their quarters for further orders. All supply and support elements to be on their stations as soon as possible.”
“Isn’t this a bit much, Alex?” Greibenfeld asked. He honestly felt Napier was over-reacting. “I mean this beat-to-quarters-and-man-guns? It sounds to me like just a rather elaborate series of civil unrest incidents.”
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