The Rival Rigelians

X

Mike Dean was on the run.

Swearing, he flung open the door of his office and barged through. He came to an abrupt halt. His secretary, Lange, was bent over the heavy ornate iron safe that sat in one comer. The other heard him, swung around quickly, a hand streaking for a pocket.

Dean’s gun was out first, but he didn’t fire.

He said breathlessly, “The rats are deserting, eh? Don’t bring that shooter out, Lange.”

The secretary stood erect. “What do you want?”

Mike Dean grunted cynical amusement. “Evidently the same thing you do. Get over against that wall.”

The Earthman came up behind the other and nudged him with the short-barreled gun. “Lean up against the wall with both hands, your legs spread, you funker.”

The secretary snarled. “You can’t do this!”

Dean snorted wry amusement again. “Famous last words,” he muttered. He quickly frisked the other, relieving the man of his weapon. Dean slipped it into one of his own pockets.

He went over to the safe and brought forth several heavy leather purses. “For emergencies only,” he said to nobody in particular. He put three of them into his clothing, scowled down at two more. He shook his head. “They’d just weigh me down,” he muttered. “And I’d probably not have any use for it anyway.”

He went over to the window and stared down into the streets, his lips thinning back over his teeth. “Zen!” he growled. “Here come the boys.”

He turned back to Lange and looked at him thoughtfully. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? Why ask, you funker? You must have been the one that turned my papers over to the barons and the Temple. Get out of those clothes.”

The other was startled. “Why?”

“I said get out of those clothes. You’re the most inconspicuously dressed cloddy in town. Get out of those clothes, before I use this shooter on you.”

Mike Dean withdrew to the far end of the office and began rapidly to strip his own body of its rich attire. Lange, slowly, reluctantly, began to do the same.

Dean snarled: “Hurry it up or I’ll strip them off your dead body.”

Lange sped up the operation.

“All right, now get up against the wall over here. Same position as before. And don’t get any silly ideas. I can get this shooter into operation quicker than you have any idea.”

Mike Dean hurriedly dressed himself in the secretary’s conservative garb, remembering at the last moment to transfer his emergency purses to the new pockets. Already, in the outer offices he could hear sounds. He had a few moments. There were several locked doors, heavy, massive doors, between himself and the newcomers. He darted his eyes around the room. At the safe, at his desk. But he shook his head, so that his jowls trembled. He had insufficient time.

He looked at Lange, thoughtfully and brought up his gun.

“No. No, don’t do it,” the other shrilled in terror. “I won’t betray you. I won’t talk.”

Mike Dean snarled at him. The noises from without the heavy office door were growing in magnitude. “I haven’t got the heart,” he growled in self-disgust.

Mike Dean hurried over to the back entrance, held his gun at the ready and flung the door open. There was nobody beyond. He hurried through into the corridor.

Behind him, Lange scurried to the opposite door, twisted the key. He opened the portal wide.

“He’s in here! He was just in here!” he screamed.

Two men at arms hurried in, guns in hand. They stared at the almost nude secretary.

Lange said shrilly, “He went that way.” He pointed excitedly. “He stole all my clothes. He went through there.”

More men crowded into the room. Several followed the pointing Lange’s directions, hurrying after the escaping tycoon.

Presbyter Doul came in, his eyes sweeping the office. They lit on the open safe. They came back to the secretary.

“It would seem that the vultures already gather,” the monk murmured.

“No,” Lange protested. “It wasn’t me. It was him. But he took only some gold crowns. Several purses of them. Everything else is still there.”

“It had better be,” Doul muttered, heading for the safe.

Mike Dean darted down a narrow alleyway, cobblestones under his feet. This town resembled nothing so much as a scene of a medieval city, in the historical Tri-Di cinema back on Earth. He had the feeling of being an actor in a third rate production.

He could hear a scrambling of feet behind him, and turned and winged three shots back. The scrambling stopped. Undoubtedly, the other had slipped into the shelter of a doorway.

Dean hurried on.

He was weighing chances in the back of his mind even as he devoted most of his thoughts to the immediate problem of staying alive. His chances didn’t weigh up to much. He had been a fool. He and Louis Rosetti both. They should have allowed for this contingency. Should have figured out some sort of foolproof getaway and hideaway for just such an emergency. They should have realized that you could push opponents just so far, no further.

He rounded a corner. And heard feet behind him again.

Zen! If he had just had another twenty-four hours or so for preparation. He could have gotten to his yacht. It was as fast as anything in any navy on Genoa. He could have gotten to the Eastern continent and to the protection of Amschel Mayer and Jerry Kennedy. They had their continent sewed up to an extent far and beyond what Dean and Rosetti had been able to establish here.

For the nonce he seemed to have shaken his pursuers. They weren’t as many as all that, probably. The others were out to get him, true enough, but even more important, they were out to take his properties and undoubtedly were more concerned for them than for his hide.

He didn’t dare attempt to secure transportation. Not even a horse. He hurried into another alley, hoping that his sense of direction wasn’t playing him false.

Finally, he emerged from a narrow street to confront the large building which was his immediate goal. His eyes darted up and down. The square before him was largely empty. He pushed the gun into his belt, beneath the jerkin he had appropriated from Lange and strolled across, taking on as careless an attitude as he could muster, and trying to keep from breathing in his physical exhaustion in such wise as to draw attention.

He entered the front portals of the building, walked past the receptionist nurse, who gave him no more than a glance, when he projected the air of someone who knew where he was going.

Mike Dean had been here before. He proceeded down the hospital corridor as fast as he could without drawing undue attention.

He didn’t bother to knock at her door. He pushed his way through. The nurse at the desk there recognized him and made a standard greeting, but he muttered at her and opened the door to the inner sanctum.

Natalie Wieliczka looked up, surprised at the unheralded intrusion. For a moment she stared. “Mike,” she said. “What are you doing in those clothes? I’m used to you as quite the dandy.”

Mike Dean went to the window and stared out at the street. He snapped: “Louis is dead.”

“What!”

He looked back at her. “Everything has gone to pot, Natalie. The barons and the Temple have united. They’re out to get us all. I think I was able to send a message through to Buchwald and MacDonald. We’ve got to get out of here, soonest. Have you got a shooter?”

“Me? A gun?” She was still staring, unbelieving.

“Here.” He brought the small weapon he had taken from Lange from his pocket and tossed it to her. She grabbed, fumbled, stared down at it.

“Why, why…”

“Come on,” he said urgently. “Let’s get going.”

“But, but Mike. What’s the charge against us?” She was aghast.

He looked at her. “Witchcraft.”

She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I thought we had wiped that accusation out.”

“Well, the Temple’s revived it, evidently. They got Louis Rosetti, and they’re after me. Obviously, you’d be next. Those Temple monks aren’t flats, they’ve put two and two together and figured out what’s happened to a lot of the power they used to have. Come on, Natalie, we’ve got to try and get out of this city, and find some way to get to a ship.”

She dithered. “But, my papers. My records.”

“Look, don’t be a yoke. We have no time, no time for anything.” He pointed out the window at a fast running contingent of men, headed by a black-robed Temple monk. “Here they come.”

At last she hustled to her feet. She stared out the window. “But I’m a doctor. I haven’t broken any laws.”

He looked at her glumly. “My dear, a doctor tied to a stake burns just as merrily as does any witch. Is there a back exit out of here?”

She led the way, the small gun clutched, forgotten, in her left hand. She took him out a rear entrance, into the whiteness of a hospital corridor which stretched the full length of the building.

They hurried down it, ignoring the stares of hospital personnel and patients.

Suddenly, the far end of the corridor filled with uniformed men.

“Quick,” Dean snapped. “This way!” He branched off into a side hall, she immediately after him. He was puffing. The weight he had taken on over these years as a prosperous tycoon was taking its toll.

They burst through a door and he collided with a burly sergeant of foot, half a dozen of his men bringing up the rear.

Mike Dean was no coward. His gun came up and his face twisted into a snarl.

Natalie Wieliczka grabbed his arm, dragging the gun down. She had dropped her own weapon.

“Let me go!” he snarled, trying to shake her off. The sergeant evidently had no idea his quarry was so near. He stared, for the moment, motionless.

Natalie said, “No. No, Mike. No killing. We’re caught. We can’t get away.”

More men at arms crowded into the area before them. Behind, they could hear still more coming up.

Mike Dean shrugged. The game was obviously up. Suddenly, he felt very tired. Not just physically so. He wished that he could have somehow got Natalie away, but evidently not even that was in the cards.

The sergeant gathered himself. “You are both under arrest.”

Behind him a Temple monk hurried up, his face in great excitement. “In the name of the Supreme…” he began.

“And all that jetsam,” Mike Dean muttered. At the end of the third decade, the Texcocan delegation was already seated in the Pedagogue’s lounge when Jerome Kennedy, Martin Gunther, Peter MacDonald, Fredric Buchwald and three Genoese, Baron Leonar and the Honorables Russ and Modrin appeared.

The Texcocan group consisted of Barry Watson, Dick Hawkins, and Natt Roberts to one side of him, Taller and six Texcocans on the other.

All came to their feet when the Genoese delegation appeared. Barry Watson was frowning unhappily. He said to Kennedy, “Didn’t Doctor Wieliczka come?”

It was MacDonald who answered. He said softly, “Natalie Wieliczka, along with Mike Dean and Louis Rosetti were captured. From what we understand…”

“Captured!” Watson barked. “What happened? What steps have you taken to rescue…”

MacDonald held up a chubby hand. “Evidently, they were burned as witches.”

Barry Watson sank into a chair, staring. “Oh, no,” he whispered.

Fredric Buchwald’s eyes had been going over the Texcocan delegation. “And Doctor Sanchez?”

Dick Hawkins growled. “That bitch is under confinement. House arrest, I suppose you’d call it.”

Barry Watson got control of himself. He looked up, his face hard now. “Where’s Amschel Mayer? I’ve got some important points to cover with him.”

All began to find seating for themselves, Kennedy saying to Barry Watson in a slur, “Take it easy fella. For that matter where’s Joe Chessman?”

Watson glared at the other. “You know where he is.”

“That I do, that I do,” Kennedy chuckled. “He’s purged, to use a term of yesteryear. At the rate you laddy-bucks are going, there won’t be anything left of you by the time our half century is up.” He snapped his fingers and a Genoese servant who’d been inconspicuously in the background, hurried to his side. “Let’s have some refreshments here. What’ll everybody have?”

“You act as though you’ve had enough already,” Watson bit out. He was a far cry from the youthful seeming, lanky and easy going man who had landed on Texcoco thirty years before.

Jerry Kennedy ignored him, insisted on everyone being served before he allowed the conversation to turn serious, Both the native Texcocans and those of Genoa eyed each other curiously; both held their peace. Their difference in costume, one group military, the other obviously businessmen, was striking.

Kennedy said slyly, “I see we’ve been successful in apprehending all of your agents, or you’d know more of our affairs.”

“Not all our agents,” Watson barked. “Only those on your southern continent. What happened to Amschel Mayer?”

Peter MacDonald, who, with Buchwald, was for the first time attending one of the decade-end conferences, had been hardly recognized in his new girth by the Texcocan team. But his added weight had evidently done nothing to his keenness of mind, although he was evidently somewhat taken back by the degree of animosity in the relationship between the two teams. He said now, smoothly, “Our good Amschel is under arrest. Imprisoned, in fact.” He shook his head, his double chins wobbling. “A tragedy.”

“Imprisoned!” Taller scowled. “By whom? I don’t like this. After all, he was your expedition’s headman.”

Barry Watson shot the military man an irritated glance but then rapped at MacDonald: “Yes. Don’t leave us there. What happened to him?”

MacDonald explained, even as Kennedy, who had already finished his long drink, signaled the servant for another round.

“The financial and industrial empire he had built was overextended. A small crisis and it collapsed. Thousands of investors suffered.” The fat man cleared his throat. “Those who were so unfortunate as not to be able to get out from under in time. However, in brief, he was arrested and found guilty.”

Barry Watson was unbelieving. “There is nothing you can do? The whole team? Obviously, you’re among those who were able to get out from under. Couldn’t you bribe him out? Rescue him by force and get him back here to the ship? With all the wealth you characters control…”

Jerry Kennedy laughed shortly. “We were busy bailing ourselves out of our own situations, Watson. You don’t know what international finances can be. Besides he dug his own grave…uh, that is, he made his own bed.”

Natt Roberts had been watching the Genoese contingent thoughtfully. He said, “It occurs to me that you’re the very ones that pulled the rug from under Amschel. You sold him out and took over his position.”

“Now, that’s an original thought,” Fredric Buchwald muttered. “But who would have ever thought of it before Natt? You always were quick with a new idea, Natt.”

The two teams were glaring at each other. That is, the Earthmen were. The Genoese and Texcocan native delegates were bright of eye, but otherwise expressionless.

Kennedy took his fresh drink from the waiter. He said, “Let’s cut out this dismal talk. How about our progress reports?”

“Progress reports,” Barry Watson growled. “That’s a laugh. You have your agents on Texcoco, we have our agents on Genoa. What’s the use of having these conferences at all?”

For the first time, one of the Genoese put in a word. Baron Leonar, son of the original Baron who had met with Amschel Mayer thirty years before, was a man in his mid-forties. He said quietly, “It seems to me that the time has arrived when the two planets might profit by open intercourse. Surely in this time one has progressed beyond the other in one or more fields, but lagged in others. If I understand it all correctly, the mission, of the Pedagogue is to bring us to as high a technological level as possible in half a century. Already three decades have passed. Cooperation is now in order.”

The Texcocans studied him thoughtfully, but Jerry Kennedy waved in negation with the hand that held his glass. “You don’t get it, Baron. You see, the thing is we wanta find out what system is going to do the most the quickest. If we cooperate with Barry’s gang, everything’ll get all mixed up.”

The Honorable Russ, now a wizened man of at least seventy, but still sharply alert, said, “However, Texcoco and Genoa might both profit.”

Kennedy grinned at him and said happily, “What do we care? You gotta take the long view. What we’re working out here is gonna be used on half a million planets eventually.” He tried to snap his fingers. “These two lousy planets don’t count that much.” He succeeded in snapping them on the second try. “Not that much.”

Barry Watson said in disgust, “You’re stoned, Jerry.”

“Why not?” Kennedy grinned. “Finally perfected a decent brandy. It was like pulling teeth. Lot’sa problems. Like casks to char to age the stuff. No oak on this curd of a world of ours. Had’ta improvise. Great stuff now. Something like Earthside Metaxa. I’ll have to send you a few cases, Barry.”

“And how would you go about that, Jerry?” Watson said softly.

Kennedy chortled. “Don’t be a yoke, Barry. Our space lighter makes a trip to Texcoco every month or so. Must keep up with you boys and what you’re doing. Maybe throw a wrench in the works once inna while.”

Peter MacDonald said, “Shut up, Jerry. You talk too much.”

“Don’t talk to me that way,” Kennedy sneered. “You’ll find yourself having one helluva time floating that loan you need next month. How about another drink everybody? This party’s dead.”

Watson said, “How about the progress reports? Briefly, we’ve all but completed our unifying of Texcoco. Minor setbacks have sometimes deterred us, but the march of progress goes on. We…”

“Minor setbacks,” Kennedy chortled. “Must have had to bump off five million of the poor slobs before that peasant revolt on the communes was finished with.”

Watson said coldly, “We always have a few reactionaries, religious fanatics, misfits, crackpots and malcontents to deal with. However, these are not important. Our industrial potential has finally begun to roll. We doubled steel production this year and will do the same next year. Our hydroelectric installations tripled in the past two years. Coal production is four times higher, lumber production six times. We expect to increase the grain harvest forty percent next season. And…”

The Honorable Russ put in gently, “Please, Honorable Watson, your percentage figures are impressive only if we know from what basis you start. If you produced but five million tons of steel last year, then your growth to ten million is very good but it is still not a considerable amount for an entire planet.”

Buchwald said dryly, “If our agents are correct, Texcoco steel production is something like a quarter of our own. I assume that your other basic products are at about the same stage of development.”

Watson flushed. “The thing to remember is that our economy continues to grow each year. Yours spurts and stops, jerks ahead a few steps, then grinds to a halt or even retreats. Everything comes to a pause if you few on the top stop making a profit; all that counts in your economy is making money for you stutes in the saddle. Which reminds me. How in the world did you ever get out of that planet-wide depression you were in three years ago?”

Peter MacDonald grunted his disgust. “Planet-wide depression, indeed. A small recession. A temporary readjustment due to over-extension in certain economic and financial fields. It was more a matter of the economy moving sideways for a time. We have built-in guards against any such thing as a depression in the old sense.”

From the other side of the table, Dick Hawkins laughed at him. “Where’d you pick up that line of gobbledegook, Peter. You sound as though you’ve been prowling the Pedagogue’s library, looking up the old apologists.”

Peter MacDonald came to his feet in indignation. “I don’t have to put up with this sort of impudence,” he snapped. “What do you know about economics? That ridiculous collectivized society you’ve jerrybuilt over on Texcoco is proof enough that you’re incompetent to have intelligent opinions.”

Watson lurched to his own feet. “Nor do we have to listen to your snide cracks about the real progress Texcoco is making, MacDonald. We know what’s being accomplished there and we’re the ones doing it.”

He glared around at his associates. “We don’t seem to be making any progress around here,” he snapped. “Hawkins, Taller, Roberts! Let’s go. Ten years from now, we’ll be back and there’ll be another story to tell. Even a blind man will be able to see the difference by then.”

They marched down the Pedagogue’s corridor toward their space lighter, their military boots clanging loud on the bare metal of the floors.

Kennedy called after them: “Ten years from now every family on Genoa’ll have a car. Wait’ll you see. Television, too. We’re introducing TV next year. An’ civil aviation. Be all over the place in two, three years…”

The Texcocans slammed the spaceport after them.

Kennedy sloshed some more drink into his glass. “Slobs can’t stand the truth,” he explained to the others. “Bunch of cloddies.”