Escape Velocity

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Escape Velocity Page 15

by Christopher Stasheff

Dar's head snapped up; he found himself staring into a very familiar beefy face, above an even more familiar breast-patch badge.

  “You're under arrest.” There was another one like him on the other side of Sam. “Just hold out your wrists, now . . .” He produced a length of cable that glowed, even in daylight.

  “Uh, no thanks.” Dar stepped backward; he'd worn a manacle-loop before, on his way to Wolmar. Once around his wrists, the cable would virtually meld with his skin, and his wrists would stick together as though they'd grown that way. “Actually, I have an appointment at the confectionary shop, you see . . .”

  “Well, I'm afraid we've got one that's a little more important. Come on now, let's not make a scene.” The policeman stepped forward. Sam backed away as the shopkeeper hefted an electroclub and snapped it down against the officer's occiput. He slumped to the ground with a muted sigh as two lean and muscular types materialized out of adjacent doorways to zap the other policeman and take their places.

  “Bit of a lucky thing for you we happened along,” the shopkeeper observed. “From what I read on the newsfax, all the cops in Haskerville're out hunting you two. Now, if I was you, I'd be wanting a nice, safe bolthole to bolt into, and lock behind me.”

  “Good idea,” Dar agreed. “But, personally, I go along with the idea that says the more you move around, the harder you are to find.”

  “I was afraid you'd make this difficult,” the shopkeeper sighed. He nodded to the two gorillas. “Move 'em around, boys.”

  Huge arms seized Dar from behind, hoisting him off the ground and carrying him toward the open air. Beside him, Sam cursed and swore, trying to kick a shin with her heels, and missing every time.

  As the toughs bundled them into a waiting car, Dar observed, “I think the cops were the better choice.”

  8

  The sign said, “You are now leaving HASKERVILLE.”

  He turned to the tough who shared the back seat with them. “You must work for somebody important, to rate a car.”

  “Might be,” the man said shortly. “Ain't so much, though.”

  “Well, no—it goes on wheels, not an air cushion. But it's still more than most folks have here. Must cost a fortune—all that metal in the engine.”

  “Metal?” The man frowned. “Where'd you grow up—on Orehouse?”

  “They're doing such marvelous things with synthetics these days,” Sam murmured.

  “Sure, plastic,” the driver confirmed. “Polythermothane. Takes all the heat we need to give it, an' more.”

  “Well, I suppose—for a turbine.” Dar frowned. “Maybe even for a boiler. But how do you shield the fissionables?”

  “ ‘E is from Orehouse,” the first tough snorted. “Fissionables're metal, lunk. How'd we get 'em 'ere?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it would be a little heavy on the import price.” Dar scratched his head. “So what do you use for an energy source?”

  “Methane.”

  “Methane?” Sam cried, scandalized. “Chemicals?”

  “Uh—I hate to butt in.” Dar glommed onto the tough's arm with a mastiff-grip. “But, could you say a word to your friend? We're running right into a mountainside!”

  The granite outcrop towered over them, rushing down on them.

  The tough nodded. “Close enough, Rog.”

  Rog pushed a button set into the dashboard, and the scrub at the base of the cliff swung outward and upward, revealing a huge gaping cave-mouth.

  “Just a bit o' camouflage,” the backseat tough explained. “Can't leave yer front door open fer just any Tom, Dick, or Paddy t' walk in, y' know.”

  “No, definitely not.” Dar's eyes fairly bulged out of his head as the car swept into the cave, and a line of glow-plates lit up along the length of the walls, lighting their way onward. The floor sloped away in front of them, spiraling down at a thirty-degree angle. Rog held the car to a continuing hairpin turn, slowing down only as much as was absolutely necessary. Sam swung over against Dar and stayed there, which would've been very pleasant, if Dar hadn't had to keep fighting to hold himself away from the backseat tough, who might not have understood, especially since that was his gun-hand.

  The ramp leveled off and the car straightened out, but Sam stayed over against Dar. He counted it a hopeful sign, but was no longer sure he cared, now that he'd seen Lona.

  The tunnel flared out into a huge cavern. Brilliant glow-plates spread a cold greenish light over alleyways between towering gray plastrete slabs.

  “I'd almost think those were buildings,” Dar said, in hushed tones, “if they had windows.”

  “They are buildings,” the tough affirmed. “What'd y' need windows for, down 'ere? Whacher gonna look at?”

  Rog pulled the car into a slot between a small van and another car. They got out, and found themselves surrounded by a fleet of trucks and vans, parked in very orderly rows.

  “Yes,” Dar mused, “your boss isn't exactly hurting, is he?”

  “Ask 'im,” the tough invited. “Y've got an appointment—immediate.”

  The door slid aside, and they stepped into a leather-and-mahogany office with a rug as thick as graft.

  “Citizens Dar Mandra and Sam Bine,” said the bald man behind the acre of desktop, almost lost in the vast swivel chair. “Come in.”

  They came in slowly, feeling as though there were guns pointed at their backs from all angles. Ridiculous, of course; the guns were probably aimed from the front.

  “Sit.” It was an order, not an invitation. Under the circumstances, Dar wasn't disposed to argue. He sat at the lefthand corner of the desk; Sam sat at the right. That's where the chairs were. They didn't look as though they'd move.

  “What is this—our invitation to join the Underground?” Dar joked, with a tight smile.

  It died under the look the little man gave him. Did he always have to make the right guess at the wrong time?

  Their host wasn't tall, but he was very broad across the shoulders and chest—and not fat. In fact, he was very hard, in the flesh—and, from the look of him, in the soul, too. He wore a quiet brown business tunic with a muted yellow ascot—conservative, punctiliously correct, with the look of a very high price. His nails were manicured, and his eyes were hidden behind brown lenses.

  “You're in the House of Houses,” he grated.

  Dar stiffened and tried to keep his face immobile. Even buried on a prison planet, he'd heard of the I.D.E.'s biggest organized crime ring.

  “The House of . . .” Sam's voice choked off. She cleared her throat. “Uh, not the head offices, of course.”

  The brown lenses swiveled toward her. The little man nodded slowly.

  “But the head offices have to be on Terra!”

  The brown lenses turned slowly from side to side. “We like it better here.”

  Dar clenched his fists to hide their quivering. “And, uh, whom do we have the pleasure of addressing?”

  The brown lenses tracked back toward him. “I've got a lot of names.”

  “Any one will do.” Dar tried to grin.

  “Call me Sard, then—Thalvor Sard. I'm the Syndic.”

  “The Syndic?” Sam gasped. “The biggest boss criminal in all of Terran space?”

  “A businessman,” Sard said, a bit impatiently, “only a businessman. Just a little impatient with government regulation, that's all.

  “Right?” His masked gaze swung to Dar.

  “Right,” Dar mumbled. From what he'd heard, Sard's “impatience” amounted to a running war on fifteen planets, and underground anarchy on most of the rest.

  “But—here?” Sam spluttered. “On a frontier planet halfway to the marches?”

  “Not so much of a frontier, as you've maybe noticed. The folks here like their comfort—like it enough to be glad to have us handy, and make sure their cops can't do much about us.”

  “And because they don't have radios,” Dar guessed.

  Sard's head swiveled back to him. “My, you're the quick one, though. Right, this time—r
adios cost so much, the cops don't have 'em. That means we can stay one jump ahead out here. Oh, they can move efficiently enough inside the town, where they can use couriers—but not out here. I'm what little law there is, outside the bounds of Haskerville.”

  Dar nodded slowly.

  “And the law can do a lot for you.” Sard nodded back at Dar. “Safety and protection, and a fat salary. What'll the town law give you, the I.D.E. law? Arrest and, probably, a quick death.”

  “Arrest? Whoa! What is this?” Dar protested. “We're not in trouble with the cops!”

  Sard just stared at him.

  “Well . . . okay. Maybe they did try to bushwhack us in that tavern,” Dar amended. “And maybe they were trying to take us in when your, ah, people intervened. But we haven't done anything illegal.”

  “You're there,” Sard said. “That's enough.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you're a telepath—or your woman is. And all the government sees is that, in the wrong hands, your power could be a real threat to them.” He leaned back. “They're right, too.”

  Dar found his voice again. “Telepath? Me?”

  Sard shrugged. “All right, play innocent, if you want. They'll be out after you, just the same. That's why that BOA man faked being murdered right next to you—to give the cops a reason for arresting you.”

  “No!” Dar cried. “He's trying to stop us from taking the new governor of Wolmar's resignation back to Terra!”

  “Sure,” Sard said slowly. “Right.”

  “Uh . . . what would we have to do for this salary-plus-benefits of yours?” Sam put in.

  The dark glasses swiveled toward her. “Nothing much. Just tell us what certain people are planning to do. You'd travel a lot—especially to Terra.”

  “Handsome offer,” Sam said slowly. “Unfortunately, neither of us is a telepath.”

  The glasses swung toward Dar.

  “ 'Fraid that's true,” Dar seconded. “Either I.D.E.'s got its signals crossed, or you do.”

  “My signals don't get crossed,” Sard corrected. “I.D.E. might, but not the LORDS—and they're the ones who're out after telepaths.”

  “The exception proves the rule,” Sam said. “This is it.”

  Sard shook his head slowly. “Too bad. Such nice young kids.”

  “What's too bad?” Dar felt a premonition walking up his spine.

  “Your untimely deaths.” Sard leaned forward. “One of you is a telepath, whether or not the other one knows it—and that telepath must've already picked up enough information to pack half of my people off to prison worlds, maybe enough to shut down the whole House of Houses. And you'd do it, too, 'cause you'd think it'd buy the LORDS off your back.”

  “But we're not telepaths.”

  “Sorry.” Sard shook his head. “Can't take the chance. Either you join, or you leave in an urn.” He pushed a button. “Don't say anything right now—think it over. This shouldn't be a snap judgment, you understand.”

  Two tall, muscular men, impeccably dressed, came in.

  “These gentlemen will conduct you to your accommodations,” Sard explained. “You'll get better ones if you join up, of course. Think it over.”

  The accommodations had a door made of steel bars and a very elaborate combination lock.

  “Gee, I didn't know you were a telepath.” Dar flopped down on a very hard bunk.

  “I didn't know you were,” Sam retorted. “Now that we've established that, shall we try to make sense out of the situation?”

  “What's to make sense of?” Dar shrugged. “Somebody's spreading nasty lies about us. Probably Rat-Face. Does that make any more sense out of it?”

  “Some,” Sam insisted. “That gets him official help in trying to get us locked up, which keeps the resignation from getting to BOA, while he waits for Bhelabher to change his mind.”

  Dar snorted. “Bhelabher? He'll wait for a century. The Honorable won't change his mind as long as Shacklar's right next to him.”

  Sam shrugged. “So Rat-Face is doomed to failure. Unfortunately, he doesn't know that—so he still gets in our way.”

  “So the telepath who just landed on the planet, and for whom the police are searching, is supposed to be one of us, huh?”

  Sam nodded. “Looks like it—which explains why we've seen so many of their shoestring police.”

  “Well, what they don't get done, the House of Houses does.” Dar scratched behind his ear. “It's almost as though this planet has two governments, one inside the cities, and one out.”

  “Somewhat like our noble interstellar government,” Sam said acidly. “There's the official government, and there's the LORDS.”

  “Can't stand long, can it?” Dar stretched. “Well! That leaves us two real simple problems—one, to get out of here; and two, clearing our names.”

  “I don't know what to do about two,” Sam said, “but about one . . .” She stared off into space, eyes losing focus.

  Dar frowned. What was she doing? He was just about to ask, when Sam turned and smiled brightly. “Nope, don't hear a murmur. Now, let's see . . .” She stood up, went to the door, knelt down, reached around to the front, and pressed her ear against the back of the lock. “One nice thing about a low-metal planet is the lack of modern devices.”

  “What're you . . . ?”

  “Sh!” she hissed fiercely, and Dar shut up. She punched buttons and turned a dial for a few minutes, muttering, “No . . . no, the other way . . . there, that's right . . . there . . . there!” Triumphantly, she shoved on the door and, slowly, with a soft rumble, it slid to the side. She stepped out.

  Dar stared.

  Then he darted out after her. “Where did you . . . ?”

  “Whisper,” she hissed. “Sound carries in these tunnels!”

  Dar put his lips against her ear and murmured, “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “You pick up a lot in a government office,” she whispered back, “especially if you want a look at your own personnel file. Come on, let's go!”

  She led off, padding silently down the dark tunnel. Dar could remember that they had to turn left as they came out of the cell, but after that, he was as lost as Handsel and Gretel without the bread crumbs. But Sam wasn't in doubt for a moment; she paused at the corridor's end (he bumped into her. It was so dark, that was the only way he knew she'd stopped), listened a moment, then darted to her right, hauling Dar after her. They went on for what seemed a half-hour, but must've been all of five minutes; then he bumped into her again. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Sh!” she answered; then, “All clear. Come on.”

  Halfway down the next midnight passage, she stopped suddenly. Then she was pushing him back frantically, and shoving him into a cross-corridor. They went down it for a few steps; then she yanked on his arm, stopping him, and froze. He could tell she froze because he could see her in the first ragtag of light that hit the far wall from a handlamp. Dar froze too, plastered against the wall like a tapestry.

  “Whut'ja expect?” A lean, scarred man in faded coveralls, hands handcuffed behind him, slouched forward in front of two toughs in business tunics. “A'ter all, he wint for me with a knife!”

  “Y' c'n tell Sard about it in th' mornin'.” One tough prodded him. “Git along, now.”

  The scarred one snarled, and they passed across the end of the corridor. The reflection from the handlamp wavered over the wall to Sam's right, and was gone. Dar held his breath till their footsteps had faded away, then let it out in a gusty sigh. Instantly, Sam's finger pressed over his lips, then was gone, and she was tugging on his hand again.

  They turned right at the end of the corridor, and went on.

  So it went, for what seemed the better part of a day. Dar was amazed at the sharpness of her hearing. Twice she pushed them into hiding in time for someone passing by to miss them, when Dar hadn't heard the faintest sound until after they were in hiding. And she never led him past an occupied cell. How could she figure out where to go?

  Then, fi
nally, she dropped down to kneel; Dar almost fell over her, but he groped back just in time. He wondered what she was doing until he heard a very faint click. Then, slowly, a slit of light appeared, and widened into a narrow rectangle that widened to a door. They stepped out into a starlit night; the door slid quietly shut behind that.

  “How did you manage that?” Dar whispered. “The Labyrinth couldn't've been worse!”

  “This was nothing,” she snorted. “You should've seen the government building where I used to work. Come on!”

  She set out at a long, catlike stride that Dar had to stretch to keep up with. They'd come out of the side of a hillock; as they rounded it, they saw nothing but a level plain, broken by the occasional outcrop, stretching away into the distance. At its limit, a feeble gleam marked Haskerville.

  “Just like the early days,” Dar sighed, “when the Wolmen still thought we were enemies and I had to be ready to hide, fast, whenever I went out trading!”

  “Oh.” Sam eyed him sideways. “You've been on the run in open country before?”

  Dar nodded. “The main principle is to stay away from the roads, and stay near whatever cover there is. And, of course, if something moves, you hit the ground fast, and worry later about whether it's dangerous or good to eat. Here, I'll show you some of the fine points.”

  He moved off through the long grass without a breath of sound. Sam shook her head and sighed, then went after him.

  As the sky lightened with false dawn, Dar started to sneak across the last yard that separated dirt track from paved Haskerville street.

  Sam caught his shoulder. “Act nonchantly, gnappie. You go sneaking around like that, the first citizen who spots you'll blow the whistle.”

  Dar turned back. “So who's going to be awake to see me?”

  “Agreed. So why sneak?”

  Dar sighed and gave up.

  So they strolled into town like a couple of late-night revelers returning to their hotel rooms.

  “Any idea where we're going?” Dar asked. “With the authorities and the Underground after us, we're kinda short on hideouts.”

  “A point,” Sam admitted. “In this town, I wouldn't even trust a cheap hotel. . . . What's that?”

 

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