Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (16 page)

Two hours after the fall of darkness he switched on Container-22 and set forth through the forest bearing a new case larger and heavier than before. Yet again he found himself regretting the distance of his hideout from the nearest road. A twenty mile march each way was tedious and tiring. But it was a cheap price to pay for the security of his supplies.

The walk was longer this time because he did not cut straight through to the road and thumb a lift. To beg a ride in his new guise would have been sufficiently out of character to draw unwelcome attention to himself. So he followed the fringe of the forest to the point where two other roads joined on. Here, in the early morning, he waited between the trees until an express bus appeared in the distance. He stepped out onto the road, caught it and was carried into the center of Pertane.

Within half an hour he had acquired a car. This time he did not bother to rent one; it wasn’t worth the trouble for the short period he needed it. Ambling around until he found a parked dyno that suited his purpose, he got in and drove away. Nobody ran after him yelling bloody murder. The theft had gone unobserved.

Making it out to the Radine road, he stopped, waited for the artery to clear in both directions, buried his letter under the marker. Then he returned to Pertane and put the car back where he had found it. He had been away a little over an hour and it was probable that the owner had not missed his machine, would never know that it had been borrowed.

Next, he went to the crowded main post office, took half a dozen small but heavy parcels from his case, addressed them and mailed them. Each held an airtight can containing a cheap clock-movement and a piece of paper, nothing else. The clock-movement emitted a sinister tick just loud enough to be heard if a suspicious-minded person listened closely. The paper bore a message short and to the point.

This package could have killed you.

Two different packages brought together at the right time and place could kill a hundred thousand.

End this war before we end you!

Dirac Angestun Gesept.

Paper threats, that was all. But effective enough to eat still further into the enemy’s war effort. They’d alarm the recipients and give their forces something more to worry about. Doubtless the military would provide a personal bodyguard for every big wheel on Jaimec and that alone would pin down a regiment.

Mail would be examined and all suspicious parcels would be taken apart in a blast-proof room. There’d be a city-wide search with radiation-detectors for the component parts of a fission-bomb. Civil defense would be alerted in readiness to cope with a mammoth explosion that might or might not take place. Anyone on the streets who walked with a secretive air and wore a slightly mad expression would be arrested and hauled in for questioning.

Yes, after three murders with the promise of more to come authority dare not dismiss D.A.G.'s threats as the idle talk of some crackpot on the loose. For safety’s sake they’d have to assume that fake bombs might soon be followed by real ones and act accordingly.

As he strolled along the road he amused himself by picturing the scene when the receiver of a parcel rushed to dump it in a bucket of water while someone else frantically phoned for the bomb squad. He was so engrossed with these thoughts that it was some time before he became conscious of a shrill whistling sound rising and falling over Pertane. He stopped, looked around, gazed at the sky, saw nothing out of the ordinary. Quite a lot of people seemed to have disappeared from the street but a few, like himself, were standing and staring around bewilderedly.

The next moment a cop shoved him in the shoulder. “Get down, you fool!”

“Down?” Mowry eyed him without understanding. “Down where? What’s the matter?”

“Into the cellars,” shouted the cop, making waving motions. “Don’t you recognize a raid-alarm when you hear it?” Without waiting for a reply he ran forward, bawling at other people, “Get down! Get down!”

Turning, Mowry scrambled after the rest down a long, steep flight of steps and into the basement of a business block. He was surprised to find the place already crowded. Several hundred people had taken refuge without having to be told. They were standing around, or sitting on wooden benches or leaning against the wall. Upending his case, Mowry sat on it.

Nearby an irate oldster looked him over with a rheumy gaze and said, “A raid-alarm. What d’you think of that?”

“Nothing,” answered Mowry. “What’s the use of thinking? There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But the Spakum fleets have been destroyed,” shrilled the oldster, making Mowry the focal point of an address to everyone. “They’ve said so time and again, on the radio and in the papers. The Spakum fleets have been wiped out. So what has set off an alarm,
hi?
What can raid us,
hi?
Tell me that!”

“Maybe it’s just a practice alarm,” Mowry soothed.

“Practice?” He spluttered with senile fury. “Why do we need practice and who says so? If the Spakum forces are beaten we’ve no need to hide. There’s nothing to hide from. We don’t want any practice.”

“Don’t pick on me,” advised Mowry, bored with the other’s whines. “I didn’t sound the alarm.”

“Some stinking idiot sounded it,” persisted the oldster. “Some lying
soko
who wants us to believe the war is as good as over when it isn’t. How do we know how much truth there is in what they’re telling us?” He spat on the floor, doing it viciously. “A great victory in the Centauri sector—then the raid-alarm is sounded. They must think we’re a lot of—”

A squat, heavily built character stepped close to him and snapped, “Shut up!” The oldster was too absorbed in his woes to cower, too pigheaded to recognize the voice of authority. “I won’t shut up. I was walking home when somebody pushed me down here just because a whistle blows and—”

The squat man opened his jacket, displayed a badge and repeated in harsher tones, “I said shut up!”

“Who d’you think you are? At my time of life I’m not going to be—”

With a swift movement the squat man whipped out a rubber truncheon, larruped the oldster over the head with all the force he could muster. The victim went down like a shot steer.

A voice at the back of the crowd shouted, “Shame!” Several others murmured, fidgeted but did nothing.

Grinning, the squat man showed what he thought of this disapproval by kicking the oldster in the face and again in the belly. Glancing up, he met Mowry’s gaze and promptly challenged, “Well?”

Mowry said evenly, “Are you of the Kaitempi?”

“Yar. What’s it to you?”

“Nothing. I was only curious.”

“Then don’t be. Keep your dirty nose out of this.”

The crowd muttered and fidgeted again. Two cops came down from the street, sat on the bottom step and mopped their foreheads. They looked nervous and jumpy. The Kaitempi agent joined them, took a gun out of his pocket and nursed it in his lap. Mowry smiled at him enigmatically. The oldster still lay unconscious on the floor and breathed with bubbling sounds.

Now the silence of the city crept into the cellar. The crowd became peculiarly tense as everyone listened. After half an hour there sounded in the distance a series of hisses that started on a loud, strong note and swiftly faded into the sky.

Tenseness immediately increased with the knowledge that guided missiles weren’t being expended for the fun of it. Somewhere overhead and within theoretical range must be a Spakum ship, perhaps bearing a lethal load that might drop at any moment.

Another volley of hisses. The silence returned. The cops and the agent got to their feet, edged farther into the basement and turned to watch the steps. Individual breathing could be heard, some respirating spasmodically as if finding difficulty in using their lungs. All faces betrayed an inward strain and there was an acrid smell of sweat. Mowry’s only thought was that to be disintegrated in a bomb-blast from his own side was a hell of a way to die.

Ten minutes later the floor quivered. The walls vibrated. The entire building shook. From the street came the brittle crash of breaking glass as windows fell out. Still there was no other sound, no roar of a great explosion, no dull rumbling of propulsors in the stratosphere. The quietness was eerie in the extreme.

It was three hours before the same whistling on a lower note proclaimed the all-clear. The crowd hurried out, vastly relieved. They stepped over the oldster, left him lying there. The two cops headed together up the street while the Kaitempi agent strode the opposite way. Mowry caught up with the agent, spoke pleasantly.

“Shock damage only. They must have dropped it a good distance away.”

The other grunted.

“I wanted to speak to you but couldn’t very well do so in front of all those people.”

“Yar? Why not?”

For answer, Mowry produced his identity-card and his warrant, showed them to the agent.

“Colonel Halopti, Military Intelligence.” Returning the card, the agent lost some of his belligerence, made an effort to be polite. “What did you want to say— something about that garrulous old fool?”

“No. He deserved all he got. You’re to be commended for the way you handled him.” He noted the other’s look of gratification, added, “An ancient gab like him could have made the whole crowd hysterical.”

“Yar, that’s right. The way to control a mob is to cut out and beat up its spokesmen.”

“When the alarm sounded I was on my way to Kaitempi H.Q. to borrow a dependable agent,” explained Mowry. “When I saw you in action I felt you’d save me the trouble. You’re just the fellow I want: one who’s quick on the uptake and will stand no nonsense. What’s your name?”

“Sagramatholou.”

“Ah, you’re from the K17 system,
hi
?They all use compound names there, don’t they?”

“Yar. And you’re from Diracta. Halopti is a Diractan name and you’ve got a Mashambi accent.”

Mowry laughed. “Can’t hide much from each other, can we?”

“Nar.” He looked Mowry over with open curiosity, asked, “What d’you want me for?”

“I hope to nab the leader of a D.A.G. cell. It’s got to be done quickly and quietly. If the Kaitempi put fifty on the job and make a major operation of it they’ll scare away the rest for miles around. One at a time is the best technique. As the Spakums say, ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey.’”

“Yar, that’s the best way,” agreed Sagramatholou.

“I’m confident that I could take this character single-handed without frightening away the others. But while I'm going in at the front he may beat it out the back. So it needs two of us.” He paused to let it sink in, finished, “I want a reliable man to grab him if he bolts; you’ll get full credit for the capture.”

The other’s eyes narrowed and gained an eager light. “I’ll be glad to come along if it’s all right with H.Q. I’d better phone and ask them.”

“Please yourself,” said Mowry with a studied carelessness he was far from feeling. “But you know what will happen for sure?”

“What d’you think?”

“They’ll take you off it and give me an officer of equivalent rank.” Mowry made a disparaging gesture. “Although I shouldn’t say it, being a colonel myself, I’d rather have a tough, experienced man of my own choice.”

The other swelled his chest. “You may have something. There are officers and officers.”

“Precisely! Well, are you in this with me or not?”

“Do you accept full responsibility if my superiors gripe about it?”

“Of course.”

“That’s good enough for me. When do we start?”

“At once.”

“All right,” said Sagramatholou, making up his mind. “I’m on duty another three hours anyway.”

“Good! You got a civilian-type dyno?”

“All our dynos are ordinary looking ones—they have to be.”

“Mine bears military insignia,” lied Mowry. “We’d better use yours.”

The other accepted this statement without question. He was completely hooked by his own eagerness to get credit for an important capture. Being what they were, the Kaitempi suffered from their own peculiar form of cupidity; the prospect of finding another victim for the strangling-post was something difficult to resist.

Reaching the parking lot around the corner, Sagramatholou took his seat behind the wheel of a big black dyno. Tossing his case into the back, Mowry got in beside him. The car snored onto the street.

“Where to?”

“South end, back of the Rida Engine Plant. I’ll show you from there.” Theatrically the agent made a chopping motion with one hand as he said, “This D.A.G. business is sending us crazy. High time we put an end to it. How did you get a lead on them?”

“We picked it up on Diracta. One of them fell into our hands and talked.”

“In great pain?” suggested Sagramatholou, chuckling.

“Yar.”

“That’s the way to handle them.” He turned a corner, let go another chuckle. “They all blab when the suffering gets too cruel to endure. After which they die just the same.”

“Yar,” repeated Mowry with becoming gusto.

“We snatched a dozen from a cafe in the Laksin quarter,” informed Sagramatholou. “They’re talking, too. But they aren’t talking sense—yet. They’ve admitted every crime in the calendar except membership of D.A.G. About that organization they know nothing, so they say.”

“What took you to the cafe?”

“Somebody got his stupid head knocked off. He was a regular frequenter of the joint. We identified him after a lot of trouble, traced him back and grabbed a bunch of his everloving friends. About six of them have confessed to the killing-”

“Six?” Mowry frowned.

“Yar. They did it at six different times, in six different places, for six different reasons. The dirty
sokos
are lying to make us ease up. But we’ll get the truth out of them yet.”

“Sounds like a mere hoodlum squabble to me. Where’s the political angle, if any?

“I don’t know. The higher-ups keep things to themselves. They say they know for a fact that it was a D.A.G. execution and therefore whoever did it is a D.A.G. killer.”

“Maybe somebody tipped them,” offered Mowry.