Who else? Thorby came up against the hard fact that most of his friends were around his age and as limited in resources. Most of them he did not know how to find at night, and he certainly could not hang around in daylight and wait for one to show up. As for the few who lived with their families at known addresses, he could not think of one who could both be trusted and could keep parents concerned from tipping off the police. Most honest citizens at Thorby's level went to great lengths to mind their own business and stay on the right side of the police.
It had to be one of Pop's friends.
He ticked off this list almost as quickly. In most cases he could not be sure how binding the friendship was, blood brotherhood or merely acquaintance. The only one whom he could possibly reach and who might possibly help was Mother Shaum. She had sheltered them once when they were driven out of their cave with retch gas and she had always had a kind word and a cold drink for Thorby.
He got moving; daylight was coming.
Mother Shaum's place was a taproom and lodging house, on the other side of Joy Street and near the crewmen's gate to the spaceport. Half an hour later, having crossed many roofs, twice been up and down in side courts and once having ducked across the lighted street, Thorby was on the roof of her place. He had not dared walk in her door; too many witnesses would force her to call the patrol. He had considered the back entrance and had squatted among garbage cans before deciding that there were too many voices in the kitchen.
But when he did reach her roof, he was almost caught by daylight; he found the usual access to the roof but he found also that its door and lock were sturdy enough to defy bare-handed burglary.
He went to the rear with the possibility in mind of going down, trying the back door anyhow; it was almost dawn and becoming urgent to get under cover. As he looked down the back he noticed ventilation holes for the low attic, one on each side. They were barely as wide as his shoulders, as deep as his chest—but they led inside.
They were screened but a few minutes and many scratches later he had one kicked in. Then he tried the unlikely task of easing himself over the edge feet first and snaking into the hole. He got in as far as his hips, his clout caught on raw edges of screening and he stuck like a cork, lower half inside the house, chest and head and arms sticking out like a gargoyle. He could not move and the sky was getting lighter.
With a drag from his heels and sheer force of will the cloth parted and he moved inside, almost knocking himself out by banging his head. He lay still and caught his breath, then pushed the screening untidily back into place. It would no longer stop vermin but it might fool the eye from four stories down. It was not until then that he realized that he had almost fallen those four stories.
The attic was no more than a crawl space; he started to explore on hands and knees for the fixture he believed must be here: a scuttle hole for repairs or inspection. Once he started looking and failed to find it, he was not sure that there was such a thing—he knew that some houses had them but he did not know much about houses; he had not lived in them much.
He did not find it until sunrise striking the vent holes gave illumination. It was all the way forward, on the street side.
And it was bolted from underneath.
But it was not as rugged as the door to the roof. He looked around, found a heavy spike dropped by a workman and used it to dig at the wooden closure. In time he worked a knot loose, stopped and peered through the knothole.
There was a room below; he saw a bed with one figure in it.
Thorby decided that he could not expect better luck; only one person to cope with, to persuade to find Mother Shaum without raising an alarm. He took his eye away, put a finger through and felt around; he touched the latch, then gladly broke a fingernail easing the bolt back. Silently he lifted the trap door.
The figure in the bed did not stir.
He lowered himself, hung by his fingertips, dropped the remaining short distance and collapsed as noiselessly as possible.
The person in bed was sitting up with a gun aimed at him. "It took you long enough," she said. "I've been listening to you for the past hour."
"Mother Shaum! Don't shoot!"
She leaned forward, looked closely. "Baslim's kid!" She shook her head. "Boy, you're a mess . . . and you're hotter than a fire in a mattress, too. What possessed you to come here?"
"I didn't know where else to go."
She frowned. "I suppose that's a compliment . . . though I had ruther have had a plague of boils, if I'd uv had my druthers." She got out of bed in her nightdress, big bare feet slapping on the floor, and peered out the window at the street below. "Snoopies here, snoopies there, snoopies checking every joint in the street three times in one night and scaring my customers . . . boy, you've caused more hooraw than I've seen since the factory riots. Why didn't you have the kindness to drop dead?"
"You won't hide me, Mother?"
"Who said I wouldn't? I've never gone out of my way to turn anybody in yet. But I don't have to like it." She glowered at him. "When did you eat last?"
"Uh, I don't remember."
"I'll scare you up something. I don't suppose you can pay for it?" She looked at him sharply.
"I'm not hungry. Mother Shaum, is the Sisu still in port?"
"Huh? I don't know. Yes, I do; she is—a couple of her boys were in earlier tonight. Why?"
"I've got to get a message to her skipper. I've got to see him, I've just got to!"
She gave a moan of utter exasperation. "First he wakes a decent working woman out of her first sleep of the night, he plants himself on her at rare risk to her life and limb and license. He's filthy dirty and scratched and bloody and no doubt will be using my clean towels with laundry prices the way they are. He hasn't eaten and can't pay for his tucker . . . and now he adds insult to injury by demanding that I run errands for him!"
"I'm not hungry . . . and it doesn't matter whether I wash or not. But I've got to see Captain Krausa."
"Don't be giving me orders in my own bedroom. Overgrown and unspanked, you are, if I knew that old scamp you lived with. You'll have to wait until one of the Sisu's lads shows up later in the day, so's I can get a note out to the Captain." She turned toward the door. "Water's in the jug, towel's on the rack. Mind you get clean." She left.
Washing did feel good and Thorby found astringent powder on her dressing table, dusted his scratches. She came back, slapped two slices of bread with a generous slab of meat between them in front of him, added a bowl of milk, left without speaking. Thorby hadn't thought that it was possible to eat, with Pop dead, but found that it was—he had quit worrying when he first saw Mother Shaum.
She came back. "Gulp that last bite and in you go. The word is they're going to search every house."
"Huh? Then I'll get out and run for it."
"Shut up and do as I say. In you go now."
"In where?"
"In there," she answered, pointing.
"In that?" It was a built-in window seat and chest, in a corner; its shortcoming lay in its size, it being as wide as a man but less than a third as long. "I don't think I can fold up that small."
"And that's just what the snoopies will think. Hurry." She lifted the lid, dug out some clothing, lifted the far end of the box at the wall adjoining the next room as if it were a sash, and disclosed thereby that a hole went on through the wall. "Scoot your legs through—and don't think you are the only one who has ever needed to lie quiet."
Thorby got into the box, slid his legs through the hole, lay back; the lid when closed would be a few inches above his face. Mother Shaum threw clothing on top of him, concealing him. "You okay?"
"Yeah, sure. Mother Shaum? Is he really dead?"
Her voice became almost gentle. "He is, lad. A great shame it is, too."
"You're sure?"
"I was bothered by the same doubt, knowing him so well. So I took a walk down to the pylon to see. He is. But I can tell you this, lad, he's got a grin on his face like he'd outsmarte
d them . . . and he had, too. They don't like it when a man doesn't wait to be questioned." She sighed again. "Cry now, if you need, but be quiet. If you hear anyone, don't even breathe."
The lid slammed. Thorby wondered whether he would be able to breathe at all, but found that there must be air holes; it was stuffy but bearable. He turned his head to get his nose clear of cloth resting on it.
Then he did cry, after which he went to sleep.
He was awakened by voices and footsteps, recalled where he was barely in time to keep from sitting up. The lid above his face opened, and then slammed, making his ears ring; a man's voice called out, "Nothing in this room, Sarge!"
"We'll see." Thorby recognized Poddy's voice. "You missed that scuttle up there. Fetch the ladder."
Mother Shaum's voice said, "Nothing up there but the breather space, Sergeant."
"I said, 'We'd see.' "
A few minutes later he added, "Hand me the torch. Hmm . . . you're right, Mother . . . but he has been here."
"Huh?"
"Screen broken back at the end of the house and dust disturbed. I think he got in this way, came down through your bedroom, and out."
"Saints and devils! I could have been murdered in my bed! Do you call that police protection?"
"You're not hurt. But you'd better have that screen fixed, or you'll have snakes and all their cousins living with you." He paused. "It's my thought he tried to stay in the district, found it too hot, and went back to the ruins. If so, no doubt we'll gas him out before the day is over."
"Do you think I'm safe to go back to my bed?"
"Why should he bother an old sack of suet like you?"
"What a nasty thing to say! And just when I was about to offer you a drop to cut the dust."
"You were? Let's go down to your kitchen, then, and we'll discuss it. I may have been wrong." Thorby heard them leave, heard the ladder being removed. At last he dared breathe.
Later she came back, grumbling, and opened the lid. "You can stretch your legs. But be ready to jump back in. Three pints of my best. Policemen!"
CHAPTER 6
The skipper of the Sisu showed up that evening. Captain Krausa was tall, fair, rugged and had the worry wrinkles and grim mouth of a man used to authority and responsibility. He was irked with himself and everyone for having allowed himself to be lured away from his routine by nonsense. His eye assayed Thorby unflatteringly. "Mother Shaum, is this the person who insisted that he had urgent business with me?"
The Captain spoke Nine Worlds trade lingo, a degenerate form of Sargonese, uninflected and with a rudimentary positional grammar. But Thorby understood it. He answered, "If you are Captain Fjalar Krausa, I have a message for you, noble sir."
"Don't call me 'noble sir'; I'm Captain Krausa, yes."
"Yes, nob—yes, Captain."
"If you have a message, give it to me."
"Yes, Captain." Thorby started reciting the message he had memorized, using the Suomish version to Krausa: " 'To Captain Fjalar Krausa, master of Starship Sisu from Baslim the Cripple: Greetings, old friend! Greetings to your family, clan, and sib, and my humblest respects to your revered mother. I am speaking to you through the mouth of my adopted son. He does not understand Suomic; I address you privately. When you receive this message, I am already dead—"
Krausa had started to smile; now he let out an exclamation. Thorby stopped. Mother Shaum interrupted with, "What's he saying? What language is that?"
Krausa brushed it aside. "It's my language. Is what he says true?"
"Is what true? How would I know? I don't understand that yammer."
"Uh . . . sorry, sorry! He tells me that an old beggar who used to hang around the Plaza—'Baslim' he called himself—is dead. Is this true?"
"Eh? Of course it is. I could have told you, if I had known you were interested. Everybody knows it."
"Everybody but me, apparently. What happened to him?"
"He was shortened."
"Shortened? Why?"
She shrugged. "How would I know? The word is, he died or poisoned himself, or something, before they could question him—so how would I know? I'm just a poor old woman, trying to make an honest living, with prices getting higher every day. The Sargon's police don't confide in me."
"But if—never mind. He managed to cheat them, did he? It sounds like him." He turned to Thorby. "Go on. Finish your message."
Thorby, thrown off stride, had to go back to the beginning. Krausa waited impatiently until he reached: "—I am already dead. My son is the only thing of value of which I die possessed; I entrust him to your care. I ask that you succor and admonish him as if you were I. When opportunity presents, I ask that you deliver him to the commander of any vessel of the Hegemonic Guard, saying that he is a distressed citizen of the Hegemony and entitled as such to their help in locating his family. If they will bestir themselves, they can establish his identity and restore him to his people. All the rest I leave to your good judgment. I have enjoined him to obey you and I believe that he will; he is a good lad, within the limits of his age and experience, and I entrust him to you with a serene heart. Now I must depart. My life has been long and rich; I am content. Farewell."
The Captain chewed his lip and his face worked in the fashion of a grown man who is busy not crying. Finally he said gruffly, "That's clear enough. Well, lad, are you ready?"
"Sir?"
"You're coming with me. Or didn't Baslim tell you?"
"No, sir. But he told me to do whatever you told me to. I'm to come with you?"
"Yes. How soon can you leave?"
Thorby gulped. "Right now, sir."
"Then come on. I want to get back to my ship." He looked Thorby up and down. "Mother Shaum, can we put some decent clothes on him? That outlandish rig won't do to come aboard in. Or never mind; there's a slop shop down the street; I'll pick him up a kit."
She had listened with growing amazement. Now she said, "You're taking him to your ship?"
"Any objections?"
"Huh? Not at all . . . if you don't care if they rack him apart."
"What do you mean?"
"Are you crazy? There are six snoopers between here and the spaceport gate . . . and each one anxious to pick up the reward."
"You mean he's wanted?"
"Why do you think I've hidden him in my own bedroom? He's as hot as bubbling cheese."
"But why?"
"Again, how would I know? He is."
"You don't really think that a lad like this would know enough about what old Baslim was doing to make it worth—"
"Let's not speak of what Baslim was doing or did. I'm a loyal subject of the Sargon . . . with no wish to be shortened. You say you want to take the boy into your ship. I say, 'Fine!' I'll be happy to be quit of the worry. But how?"
Krausa cracked his knuckles one by one. "I had thought," he said slowly, "that it would be just a matter of walking him down to the gate and paying his emigration tax."
"It's not, so forget it. Is there any way to get him aboard without passing him through the gate?"
Captain Krausa looked worried. "They're so strict about smuggling here that if they catch you, they confiscate the ship. You're asking me to risk my ship . . . and myself . . . and my whole crew."
"I'm not asking you to risk anything. I've got myself to worry about. I was just telling you the straight score. If you ask me, I'd say you were crazy to attempt it."
Thorby said, "Captain Krausa—"
"Eh? What is it, lad?"
"Pop told me to do as you said . . . but I'm sure he never meant you to risk your neck on my account." He swallowed. "I'll be all right."
Krausa sawed the air impatiently. "No, no!" he said harshly. "Baslim wanted this done . . . and debts are paid. Debts are always paid!"
"I don't understand."
"No need for you to. But Baslim wanted me to take you with me, so that's how it's got to be." He turned to Mother Shaum. "The question is, how? Any ideas?"
"Mmm . . . possibly
. Let's go talk it over." She turned. "Get back in your hide-away, Thorby, and be careful. I may have to go out for a while."
Shortly before curfew the next day a large sedan chair left Joy Street. A patrolman stopped it and Mother Shaum stuck her head out. He looked surprised. "Going out, Mother? Who'll take care of your customers?"
"Mura has the keys," she answered. "But keep an eye on the place, that's a good friend. She's not as firm with them as I am." She put something in his hand and he made it disappear.
"I'll do that. Going to be gone all night?"
"I hope not. Perhaps I had better have a street pass, do you think? I'd like to come straight home if I finish my business."
"Well, now, they've tightened up a little on street passes."
"Still looking for the beggar's boy?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. But we'll find him. If he's fled to the country, they'll starve him out; if he's still in town, we'll run him down."
"Well, you could hardly mistake me for him. So how about a short pass for an old woman who needs to make a private call?" She rested her hand on the door; the edge of a bill stuck out.
He glanced at it and glanced away. "Is midnight late enough?"
"Plenty, I should think."
He took out his book and started writing, tore out the form and handed it to her. As she accepted it the money disappeared. "Don't make it later than midnight."
"Earlier, I hope."
He glanced inside the sedan chair, then looked over her entourage. The four bearers had been standing patiently, saying nothing—which was not surprising, since they had no tongues. "Zenith Garage?"
"I always trade there."
"I thought I recognized them. Well matched."
"Better look them over. One of them might be the beggar's boy."
"Those great hairy brutes! Get along with you, Mother."
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