Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (11 page)

This performance pleased him immensely. A month ago it would have been too childish to bother with and the recipients would have dismissed it as the work of someone feeble-minded. But today the circumstances were vastly different. The powers-that-be had revealed themselves as annoyed if not frightened. They were in a poor mood to relish a raspberry. With moderate luck the sardonic registration form would boost their anger and that would be all to the good because a mind filled with fury cannot think in a cool, logical manner.

When one is fighting a paper-war one uses paper-war tactics that in the long run can be just as lethal as high explosive. And the tactics are not limited in scope by use of one material. The said material is very variable in form. Paper can convey a private warning, a public threat, secret temptation, open defiance; wall-bills, window-stickers, leaflets dropped by the thousands from the roof-tops, cards left on seats or slipped into pockets and purses . . .
money.

Yes, money.

With paper money he could buy a lot of the deeds needed to back up the words. With paper money he could persuade the Sirian foe to kick himself good and hard in the pants and thereby save the Terrans a tedious chore.

At the proper hour he set out for the Cafe Susun.

Not having yet received the D.A.G.’s thumb-on-nose registration the Jaimecan authorities were still able to think in a calculating and menacing way. Their countermoves had not been confined to that morning’s new law. They had taken matters further by concocting a dangerous technique, namely, that of the snap-search.

It almost caught Mowry at the first grab. He did not congratulate himself on his escape, realizing that to avoid one trap might be merely to fall into another. The risk was great, the trick being of such a type that none could tell when or where the next blow would fall.

He was heading for his rendezvous when suddenly a line of uniformed police extended itself across the street. A second line simultaneously did likewise four hundred yards farther on. From the dumbfounded mob trapped between the lines appeared a number of plainclothes members of the Kaitempi. These at once commenced a swift and expert search of everyone thus halted in the street. Meanwhile both lines of police kept their full attention inward, watching to see that nobody ducked into a doorway and bolted through a house to escape the mass-frisk.

Thanking his lucky stars that he was outside the trap and being ignored, Mowry faded into the background as inconspicuously as possible and beat it home fast. In his room he burned all documents relating to Shir Agavan, crumbled the ashes into fine dust. That identity was now dead forever and ever, amen. It would never be used again.

From one of his packages he took a new set of papers swearing before all and sundry that he was Krag Wulkin, special correspondent of a leading news agency, with a home address on Diracta. In some ways it was a better camouflage than the former one. It lent added plausibility to his Mashambi accent. Moreover a complete check on it would involve wasting a month referring back to the Sirian home planet.

Thus armed he started out again. Though better fitted to face awkward questions the risk of being asked them had been greatly boosted by this latest technique and he took to the streets with the queasy feeling that somehow or other the hunt at last had picked up the scent.

There was no way of telling exactly what the snap-searchers were seeking. Maybe they were trying to catch people carrying subversive propaganda on their persons. Or perhaps they were looking for treacherous
sokos
with D.A.G. membership cards. Or could be they were haphazardly groping around for a dynocar renter named Shir Agavan. Whatever their reasons, the tactic proved that someone among Jaimec’s big shots had become aggravated.

Luckily no more traps opened in his path before he reached the Cafe Susun. He went in, found Arhava and two others seated at the far table where they were half-concealed in dim light and could keep watch on the door.

“You’re late,” greeted Arhava. “We thought you weren’t coming.”

“I got delayed by a police raid on the street. The cops looked surly. You fellows just robbed a bank or something?”

“No, we haven’t.” Arhava made a casual gesture toward his companions. “Meet Gurd and Skriva.”

Mowry acknowledged them with a curt nod, looked them over. They were much alike, obviously brothers. Flat-faced, hard-eyed with pinned-back ears that came up to sharp points. Each looked capable of selling the other into slavery provided there was no comeback with a knife.

“We haven’t heard
your
name,” said Gurd, speaking between long, narrow teeth.

“You aren’t going to, either,” responded Mowry.

Gurd bristled. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t really care what my name is,” Mowry told him. “If the thing atop your neck has a steady tick it’s a matter of total indifference to you
who
gives you a load of guilders.”

“Yar, that’s right,” chipped in Skriva, his eyes glittering. “Money is money regardless of who hands it over. Shut up, Gurd.”

“I only wanted to know,” mumbled Gurd, subdued.

Arhava took over with the mouth-watering eagerness of one on the make. "I’ve given these boys your proposition. They’re interested.” He turned to them. “Aren’t you?”

“Yar," said Skriva. He concentrated attention upon Mowry. “You want someone in his box. That right?”

“I want someone stone cold and I don’t give a hoot whether or not he is boxed.”

“We can tend to that.” He fixed his toughest expression which told all and sundry that he’d kilt him a bar when he wuz only three. Then he said, “For fifty thousand.” Emitting a deep sigh, Mowry stood up, ambled toward the door. “Live long!”

“Come back!” Skriva shot to his feet, waved urgently. Arhava had the appalled look of someone suddenly cut out of a rich uncle’s will. Gurd sucked his teeth with visible agitation.

Pausing at the door, Mowry held it open. “You stupes ready to talk sense?”

“Sure,” pleaded Skriva. “I was only joking. Come back and sit down.”

“Bring us four
zitbs, ”
said Mowry to the attendant who was blearing behind the counter. He returned to the table, resumed his seat. “No more bad jokes. I don’t appreciate them.”

“Forget it,” advised Skriva. “We’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

“You may voice them,” agreed Mowry. He accepted a mug of
zith
from the attendant, paid him, took a swig, eyed Skriva with becoming lordliness.

Skriva said, “Who d’you want us to slap down? And how do we know were going to get our money?”

“For the first, the victim is Colonel Hage-Ridarta.” He scribbled rapidly on a piece of paper, gave it to the other. “That is his address.”

“I see.” Skriva stared at the slip, went on, “And the money?”

“I’ll pay you five thousand right now as an act of faith, fifteen thousand when the job is done.” He stopped, gave the three of them the cold, forbidding eye. “I don’t take your word for the doing. It’s got to be squawked on the news channels before I part with another one-tenth guilder.”

“You trust us a lot, don’t you?” said Skriva, scowling.

“No more than I have to.”

“Same applies on this side.”

“Look,” Mowry urged, “we’ve
got
to play ball with each other whether we like it or not. Here’s how. I’ve got a list. If you do the first job for me and I renege you’re not going to do the others, are you?”

“No.”

“What’s more, you’ll take it out of my hide first chance you get, won’t you?”

“You can bet on that,” assured Gurd.

“Similarly, if you pull a fast one on me you will cut off the flow of money, big money. You’ll deprive yourselves of far more than the Kaitempi would pay for betraying me and a dozen others. I’m outbidding the Kaitempi by a large margin, see? Don’t you fellows
want
to get rich?”

“I hate the idea of it,” said Skriva. “Let’s see that five thousand.”

Mowry slipped him the package under the table. The three checked it in their laps. After a while Skriva looked up, his face slightly flushed.

“Were sold. Who is this Hage-Ridarta
soko?”

“Just a brasshat who has lived too long.”

That was a half-truth. Hage-Ridarta was listed in the city directory as officer commanding an outfit of space marines. But his name had been appended to an authoritative letter in Pigface’s files. The tone of the latter had been that of a boss to an underling. Hage-Ridarta was an officially disguised occupant of the Kaitempi top bracket and therefore would make a most satisfactory corpse.

“Why d’you want him out of the way?” demanded Gurd, still sullen and suspicious.

Before Mowry could reply, Skriva said fiercely, “I told you before to shut up. I’ll handle this. Can’t you button your trap even for twenty thousand?”

“We haven’t got it yet,” persisted Gurd.

“You will get it,” Mowry soothed. “And more, lots more. The day the news of Hage-Ridarta’s death is given in the papers or on the radio I’ll be here at the same time in the evening complete with fifteen thousand guilders and the next name. If by any chance I’m held up and can’t make it, I’ll be here at the same time the following evening.”

“You’d better be!” informed Gurd, glowering.

Arhava had a question of his own. “What’s my percentage for introducing the boys?”

“I don’t know.” Mowry turned to Skriva. “How much do you intend to give him?”

“Who?—me?” Skriva was taken aback.

“Yes, you. The gentleman thirsts for a rakeoff. You don’t expect me to pay him, do you? Think I’m made of money?”

“Somebody had better fork out,” declared Arhava, making the mistake of his life. “Or—”

Skriva shoved scowling features up against him and breathed over his face. “Or
what?”

“Nothing,” said Arhava, nervously leaning away. “Nothing at all.”

“That’s better,” Skriva approved in grating tones. “That’s a whole lot better. Just sit around and be a good boy, Butin, and we’ll feed you crumbs from our table. Get fidgety and you’ll soon find yourself in no condition to eat them. In fact you won’t be able to swallow. It’s tough when a fellow can’t swallow. You wouldn’t like that, would you, Butin?”

Saying nothing, Arhava sat still. His complexion was slightly mottled.

Repeating the face-shoving act, Skriva shouted, “I just asked you a civil question. I said you wouldn’t like it, would you?”

“No,” admitted Arhava, tilting back his chair to get away from the face.

Mowry decided the time had come to leave this happy scene. He took his daring far enough to say to Skriva, “Don’t get tough ideas about
me
—if you want to stay in business.”

With that, he went. He did not worry about the possibility of any of them following him. They wouldn’t dare, being too afraid of offending the best customer they’d had since crime came to Pertane.

As he walked rapidly along he pondered the evening’s work, decided it had been a wise move to insist that money did not grow on trees. They’d have shown no respect whatsoever if he’d been willing to shove it out regardless as, in fact, he could afford to do should the necessity arise. They’d have put on maximum pressure to gain the most in return for the least and that would have produced more arguments than results.

It was also a good thing that he’d refused a cut to Arhava and left them to fight it out between themselves. The reaction had been revealing. A mob, even a small mob, is only as strong as its weakest link. Anyone capable of ratting to the Kaitempi could blow the whole bunch sky-high. It was important to discover a prospective squealer before it was too late and, if one existed, to be warned accordingly. In this respect Butin Arhava hadn’t shown up so good.

“Somebody had better fork out or—”

The testing-time would come soon after he’d paid over fifteen thousand guilders for a job well done and those concerned divided the loot. Well, if the situation seemed to justify it, that’s when he’d give the Gurd-Skriva brothers the next name—that of Butin Arhava. He felt no compunction about this decision, no qualms of conscience. So far as he was involved, all Sirians were enemies, any one of them being no more or less a foe than any other.

He continued homeward, deep in thought and not looking where he was going while he settled this matter in his mind. He had just reached the final conclusion that Arhava’s throat would have to be slit sooner or later when a heavy hand clamped on his shoulder and a voice rasped in his ear.

“Lift them up, Dreamy, and let’s see what you’ve got in your pockets. Come on, you’re not deaf, lift ’em I said!”

With a sense of sudden shock he raised his arms, felt fingers start prying into his clothes. Nearby forty or fifty equally surprised walkers were holding the same pose. A line of phlegmatic police stood across the street a hundred yards away. In the opposite direction a second line looked on with the same indifference. Yet again the random trap had sprung.

A flood of superfast thoughts raced through his startled brain as he stood with arms extended above his head. Thank heavens he’d got rid of that money; they’d have been unpleasantly inquisitive about so large a sum being carried in one lump. If they were looking for Shir Agavan they were dead out of luck. In any case, he wasn’t going to let them take him in, even for questioning. Not if he could help it. Most people who survived a Kaitempi interrogation did so as physical wrecks. It would be better at the last resort to break this searcher’s neck and run like blazes.

“If the cops shoot me down it’ll be a quicker and easier end. When Terra gets no more signals from me, Wolf will choose my successor and feed the poor sap the same
— ”

“Hi?”
The Kaitempi agent broke his train of thought by holding Mowry’s wallet open and gazing with surprise at Pigface’s card reposing therein. The tough expression faded from his heavy features as if wiped away with a cloth. “One of us? An officer?” He took a closer look at the other. “But I do not recognize
you. ”