Wasp

CHAPTER VIII

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 recognise 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 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,?i? What can raid us,?i? 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 recognise 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 theis 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, 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?”

“AII 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 car-park 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.

“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 organisation 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 ever-loving 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.

“Maybe somebody did. And he could be a liar too.” He let go a snort of disgust. “This war is enough without traitors and liars making things worse. We’re being run ragged, see? It can’t go on for ever.”

“Any luck with the snap-searches?”

“There was at first. Then the luck petered out because everyone became wary. We’ve stopped making them for ten days. The lull will give the dodgers a sense of false security. When they’re ripe for the taking, we’ll take them.”

“That’s a good idea. One has to use one’s wits these days, hi?”

“Yar.”

“Here we are. Turn left and then first right”

The car shot past the rear of the engine plant, entered a narrow, rutted road, switched into another little better than a lane. All around was an unsavoury, semi-deserted area full of old buildings, vacant lots and garbage dumps. They stopped, got out.

Gazing about him, the Kaitempi agent remarked, “A typical vermin-run. A couple of years ago we smoked a gang of god-worshippers out of an old warehouse in this district”

Mowry put on a look of revulsion, “You mean a bunch infected with Terran religion?”

“Yar, true believers. When the noose tightened their praying tongues stuck out and went black the same as any sinners.” He laughed at the recollection of it, glanced at the other. “Where now?”

“Along this alley.”

Mowry led the way into the alley which was long, dirty and had a dead end. They reached the twelve-foot wall that blocked further progress. There was nobody in sight, nothing could be heard save a distant hum of traffic and the nearer squeak of a hanging sign, old and rusty.

Pointing to the door set in the wall, Mowry said, This is the bolt-hole. It will take me two or three minutes to get round the front and go in. After that you can expect anything.” He tried the door. It refused to budge. “Locked.”

“Better unlock it so he can make a clear run;” suggested Sagramatholou. “If he finds himself balked he’s liable to try shoot it out with you and I’ll be in no position to take part. These sokos can become dangerous when desperate.” He felt in a pocket, produced a bunch of master-keys. Grinning, he added, “The easiest way is to let him rush straight into my arms.”

With that, he faced the door, turning his back on Mowry while he meddled with the lock. Mowry looked back along the alley. Still nobody in sight.

Taking out his gun, he said in calm, unhurried tones, “You kicked the old geezer when he was down.”

“Sure did,” enthused the agent, still trying the lock. “I hope he dies slowly, the half-witted—” His voice broke off as the incongruity of Mowry’s remark sank into his mind. He turned round, one hand braced upon the door, and looked straight into the gun’s muzzle. “What’s this? What are you—”

The gun gave a whut no louder than that of an air-pistol. Sagramatholou remained standing, a blue hole in his forehead. His mouth hung open in an idiotic gape. Then his knees gave way and he plunged forward face first.

Pocketing the gun, Mowry bent over the body. Working fast, he searched it, replaced the wallet after a swift look through it but confiscated the official badge. Hastening out the alley, he got into the car, drove it downtown to within a short distance of a used car lot. Walking the rest of the way he looked over the big assembly of badly beaten-up dynos. A thin, hard-faced Sirian immediately sidled up to him, his crafty eyes noting the well-cut suit, the platinum fob and wrist-band. This, obviously, was harvest time.

“Lucky you!” announced the Sirian, greasily. “You have found the best place on Jaimec for a genuine bargain. Every car a real sacrifice. There’s a war on, prices are going to jump and you just can’t go wrong. Now take a look at this beauty right here. A gift, a positive gift. It’s a—”

“I’ve got eyes,” said Mowry.

“Yar, sure. I’m pointing out—”

“I’ve got a mind of my own,” Mowry informed. “And I wouldn’t drive around in any of these relics unless I was in a hurry to be struck dead.”

“But—”

“Like everyone else, I know there’s a war on. before long it’s going to be mighty tough getting bits and pieces. I’m in-terested in something I can strip down for parts.” He pointed.

“That one, for instance. How much?”

“She’s a good runner,” expostulated the salesman, donning a look of horror. “Purrs along like brand new. Got current plates—”

“I can see it’s got current plates.”

“…and is good and solid from front to back. I’m giving it away, just giving it”

“How much?”

“Nine-ninety,” said the other, again eyeing the suit and the platinum.

“Robbery,” said Mowry.

They haggled for half an hour at the end of which Mowry got it for eight-twenty. He paid and drove it away. It creaked, groaned and lurched in a manner that showed he’d still been soaked for at least two hundred, but he wasn’t resentful about that.

On a lot littered with scrap-iron a mile away, with nobody watching, he parked the car, smashed its windshield and lamps, removed its wheels and number plates, took all detach-able parts from the motor and effectively converted the machine into what any passer-by could see was an abandoned wreck. He walked off, returned in short time with the dead agent’s car, loaded the loose parts into it.

Half an hour later he slung the wheels and other items into the river. With them went Sagramatholou’s plates. He drove away bearing the plates taken from the wreck; the exchange had cost him eight-twenty in counterfeit money and was cheap at the price. A police patrol or another Kaitempi car could now follow him for miles without spotting the number for which undoubtedly they’d be seeking.

Assured of no more snap-searches for the time being he idled around town until the sky went dark. Dumping the car in an underground garage, he bought a paper and perused it during a meal.

According to this news-sheet a lone Terran destroyer—described as “a cowardly sneak-raider’—had managed to make a desperate dash through formidable space defences and drop one bomb upon the great national armaments. complex at Shugruma. Little damage had been done. The invader had been blown apart soon afterward.

The story had been written up to give the impression that a sly dog had got in a harmless bite and been shot for its pains. He wondered how many readers believed it. Shugruma was more than three hundred miles away—yet Pertane had shuddered to the shock-waves of the distant explosion. If that was anything to go by, the target area must now be represented by a crater a couple of miles in diameter.

The second page stated that forty-eight members of the traitorous Sirian Freedom Party had been seized by forces of law and order and would be dealt with appropriately. No details offered, no names given, no charges stated.

This was normal among a species with a secret judicial system, on worlds where any suspect could be snatched from the street and never seen again. There were no judges and juries holding public trials anywhere within the Sirian Empire. If lucky, the arrested one eventually was released, physically enfeebled, without apology or compensation. If out of luck, his next of kin did not so much as receive a jar containing his ashes.

The forty-eight were doomed, whoever they were or whoever they were thought to be. Alternatively, the whole yarn could be an officially concocted lie. The powers-that-be were quite capable of venting their fury on half a dozen common crooks and, for public consumption, defining them as D.A.G. members while multiplying their number by eight. Authority is maintained and wars are fought by propaganda, a cover word for cynical perversion of the facts.

One of the back pages devoted a few lines to the modest statement that Sirian forces had now been withdrawn from the planet Gooma “so that they can be deployed more effectively in the actual area of combat.” This implied that Gooma was far outside the area of combat, a transparent piece of nonsense to any reader capable of independent thought. But ninety percent of the readership could not endure the awful strain of thinking: they were content to look and listen and swallow whatever guff got dished out.

Far and away the most significant item was the leader-writer’s contribution. This was a pompous sermon based on the thesis that total war should end only in total victory which could and must be gained only by total effort. There was no room for political division within the Sirian ranks. Everyone without exception must be solidly behind the leadership in its determination to fight the war to a successful conclusion. Doubters and waverers, dodgers and complainers, the lazy and the shiftless were as much traitors to the cause as any spy or saboteur. They should be dealt with swiftly, once and for all. They should be slaughtered without mercy.

Clearly it was a yelp of agony although Dirac Angestun Gesept was not mentioned in plain words. Since in time of war all such lectures were officially inspired, it was reasonable to assume that the brasshats were experiencing acute pains in the buttocks. In effect they were shouting out loud that a wasp could sting. Perhaps some of them had received little parcels that ticked and did not approve of this switch from the general to the personal.

Now that night had fallen Mowry lugged his case to his room. He made the approach warily. Any hideout could become a trap at any time, without warning. Apart from the possibility of the police or Kaitempi lying in wait after having got a line on him, there was also the chance of encountering a landlord who’d become curious about the use of the room by another and more prosperous Iooking character. True, the landlord was a tightmouth typical of slumdom but even he would curry favour with the Kaitempi if he thought it necessary to save his own neck. The landlord was not to be trusted. On a hostile world nobody was to be trusted.

The building wasn’t watched, the room was not staked. He managed to sneak in unobserved. Everything proved to be exactly as he had left it, showing that nobody yet had found reason to come nosing around. Thankfully he sprawled on the bed and gave his feet a rest while he considered the situation. It was evident that as far as possible he would have to enter and leave the room only during hours of darkness. The alternative was to seek another hideout, preferably in a better-class area more in keeping with his present character. He didn’t want to start another time-wasting search for a rat-hole unless he was driven to it.

The following day he regretted the destruction of his first case and all its contents in Radine. This loss piled up the work, made it tedious and boring. But it had to be done. As a result he spent all morning in the public library compiling a list of names and addresses to replace the previous one. Then with plain paper, envelopes and a small hand-printer he used another two days preparing a stack of letters. It was a relief when they were finished and mailed.

Thus he had killed several birds with one stone. He had avenged the oldster, a motive that gave him a good deal of satisfaction. He had struck another blow at the Kaitempi. He’d acquired a car not traceable through renting agencies or usual sales channels. Finally he had given authority further proof of D.A.G.’s willingness to kill, maim or otherwise muscle its way to power.

To boost this situation he mailed at the same time another six parcels. Outwardly these were identical with the former ones. They emitted the same subdued tick. There the resemblance ended. At periods varying between six and twenty hours after sending, or at any moment that someone tried pry them open, they were due to go off with a bang sufficiently forceful to plaster a body against the wall.

On the fourth day after his return to the roam he slipped out unseen, collected the car and visited Marker 33-den on the Radine road. Several patrol cars passed him on the way but none betrayed the slightest interest in him. Reaching the marker, he dug at its base, found his own cellophane envelope now containing a small card. All it said was: Asako 19-1713. The trick had come off.

Forthwith he drove back to the first booth he could find, switched off its scanner and called the number. A strange voice answered while the visiscreen remained blank. Evidently there was similar caution at the other end.

“19-1713,” it said.

“Gurd or Skriva there?” asked Mowry.

“Wait,” ordered the voice.

“One moment and no more,” retorted Mowry. “After that goodbye!”

The only answer was a grunt. Mowry hung on, watching the road, ready to drop the phone and beat it immediately his intuition told him to get away fast. The college had told him times without number never to disregard the strange, in-definable smell of an ambush. There must be something in it seeing he was still alive and fancy free.

He was nearing the point of taking alarm when Skriva’s voice came through and growled, “Who’s that?”

“Your benefactor.”

“Oh, you. I’m not getting your pic.”

“I’m not getting yours either. What’s the matter—are you windy?”

“This is no place to talk,” said Skriva. “We’d better meet. Where are you?”

A swift series of thoughts flashed through Mowry’s mind. Where are you? Was Skriva allowing himself to be used as bait? If he’d been caught and given a preliminary taste of rough treatment it was just the sort of crafty trick the Kaitempi would play. They’d get Skriva’s full co-operation after showing him the consequences of refusal.

On the other hand it wasn’t likely in such circumstances that Skriva would bother asking for his location. The Kaitempi would know it already, having traced the call. Moreover they’d want the conversation prolonging as much as possible to hold Mowry there. Skriva was trying to cut it short. Yes, the betting was against a trap.

“You struck dumb?” shouted Skriva, impatient and suspicious.

That settled the matter from Mowry’s viewpoint and he replied, “I was thinking. How about meeting me where you left your phone number?”

“That’s as good as anywhere.”

“By yourself,” warned Mowry. “Nobody else with you excepting Gurd. Nobody following and nobody hanging around.”

“Who’s windy now?” said Skriva. “I’m coming right away.”

Driving back to the marker, Mowry parked his car on the verge and waited. Twenty minutes afterward Skriva’s dyno rolled up, parked behind. Skriva got out, approached him, halted in mid-step, scowled uncertainly, slid a hand into a pocket and looked hurriedly up and down the road. There were no other cars in sight.

Mowry grinned at him. “What’s eating you? Got a guilty conscience or something?”

Coming closer, Skriva eyed him with slight incredulity, then commented, “So it is you. What have you been doing to yourself?”

Without waiting for a reply he walked around the bonnet, climbed in, took the other seat. “You don’t look the same. It was hard to recognise you.”

“That’s the idea. A change for the better wouldn’t do you any harm, either. Make it harder for the cops to get you.”

“Maybe.” Skriva was silent for a moment, then, “They got Gurd.”

Mowry sat up. “How? When was this?”

“The damn fool came down from a roof straight into the arms of two of them. Not satisfied with that he gave them some lip and went for his gun.”

“If he’d behaved like he’d every right to be up there he could have talked his way out of it.”

“Gurd couldn’t talk his way out of an old sack,” opined Skriva. “He’s not made like that. I spend a lot of time keeping him out of trouble.”

“How come you weren’t collared too?”

“I was on another roof halfway down the street. They didn’t see me. It was all over before I could get down to help Gurd.”

“What happened to him?”

“What you’d expect. The cops were already beating him over the head before he got his hand in his pocket. Last I saw of him was when they flung him into the wagon.”

“Tough luck!” sympathised Mowry. He meditated a while, asked, “And what happened at the Cafe Susun?”

“Don’t know exactly. Gurd and I weren’t there at the time and a fellow tipped us to stay clear. All I know is that the Kaitempi rushed the place twenty strong, grabbed everyone in sight and staked it. I’ve not shown my face near there since. Some soko must have talked too much.”

“Butin Arhava, for instance?”

“How could he?” scoffed Skriva. “Gurd took his head off before he’d a chance to blab.”

“Maybe he talked after Gurd had tended to him,” Mowry suggested. “Sort of lost his head about it.”

Skriva narrowed his eyes: “What d’you mean?”

“Oh, forget it. Did you collect that roll from the bridge?”

“Yar.”

“Want any more—or are you now too rich to care?”

Studying him calculatingly, Skriva asked, “How much money have you got altogether?”

“Enough to pay for all the jobs I want done.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“It isn’t intended to,” Mowry assured. “What’s on your mind?”

“I like money.”

“That fact is more than apparent,” said Mowry.

“I’m really fond of it,” Skriva went on, as if speaking in parables.

“Who isn’t?”

“Yar, who isn’t? Gurd loves it too. Most everybody does.”

Skriva stopped, added, “In fact the chump who doesn’t love it is either daft or dead.”

“If you’re leading up to something, say so,” Mowry urged. “Cut out the song and dance act. We’ve not got all day.”

“I know a fellow who loves money.”

“So what?”

“He’s a jailer,” said Skriva pointedly.

Twisting sidewise in his seat, Mowry eyed him carefully.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks. What’s he willing to do and how much does he want?”

“He says Gurd’s in a cell along with a couple of old pals of ours. So far none of them have been put through the mill though they’ll be worked over sooner or later. Fellows in clink usually are given plenty of time to think over what’s coming to them and let their imaginations operate. It helps them break down quicker.”

“That’s the usual technique,” Mowry agreed. “Let them become nervous wrecks before making them physical wrecks.”

“Yar, the stinking sokos.” Skriva spat out the window before he continued, “Whenever a prisoner’s number comes up the Kaitempi call at the jail, present an official demand for him and take him to their H.Q. for treatment. Sometimes they bring him back several days later, by which time he’s a cripple. Sometimes they don’t return him at all. In the latter event they file a death warrant to keep the prison records straight.”

“Go on.”

“This fellow who loves money will give me the number and location of Gurd’s cell. Also the timing of Kaitempi visits and full details of the routine they follow. Finally he’ll pro-vide a copy of the official form used for demanding release.” He let that sink in, finished, “He wants a hundred thousand.”

Mowry pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “You think we should try get Gurd out?”

“Yar.”

“Didn’t know you were so fond of him.”

“He could stay there and rot for all I care,” said Skriva.

“He’s paying the price of his own stupidity. Why should I worry about him, hi?”

“All right, let him stay and rot. We’ll save a hundred thousand that way.”

“Yar,” Skriva approved. “But—”

“But what?”

“I could use the dope and the two with him. So could you if you’ve more work in mind. Furthermore, if Gurd’s kept in he’ll talk. They’ll make him talk—and he knows too much. But if he escapes they won’t be able to force him to say anything. And what’s a hundred thousand to you?”

“Too much to throw away on a glib story.” Mowry told him bluntly. “Prize fool I’d be to hand you a huge, wad just because you say Gurd’s in the clink.”

Skriva’s face darkened with anger. “You don’t believe me, hi?”

“I’ve got to be shown,” said Mowry, undisturbed.

“Maybe you’d like a specially conducted tour through the jail and have Gurd pointed out to you?”

“The sarcasm is wasted. You seem to forget that while Gurd may be able to put the finger on you for fifty or more major crimes, he can do nothing whatsoever about me. He can talk himself black in the face without saying anything worth a hoot so far as I am concerned. No, when I spend money it’ll be my money and it’ll be spent for my reasons, not yours.”

“So you won’t splurge a guilder on Gurd?” demanded Skriva, still thunderous.

“I don’t say that. What I do say is that I won’t throw money away for nothing. But I’m willing to pay for full value received.”

“Meaning what?”

“Tell this greedy screw that we’ll give him twenty thousand for a genuine Kaitempi requisition-form—after he has handed it over. Also that we’ll pay him a further eighty thousand after Gurd and his two companions have got away.”

A mixture of expressions crossed Skriva’s unlovely features, surprise, gratification, doubt and puzzlement. “What if he refuses to play on these terms?”

“He stays poor.”

“Well, what if he agrees but refuses to believe I can find the money? How am I going to convince him?”

“Don’t bother to try,” Mowry advised. “He has to speculate in order to accumulate, same as everyone else. If he won’t do it let him remain content with grinding poverty.”

“Maybe he’d rather stay poor than take the risk.”

“He won’t. He’s running no real risk and he knows it.

There’s only one chance he could take and he’ll avoid it like the plague.”

“Such as?”

“Suppose we arrive to make the rescue and are jumped on before we can open our mouths or show the requisition-form, what will it prove? It’ll show that this fellow fooled you for the sake of the reward. The Kaitempi will pay him five thousand apiece for laying the trap and tipping them off. He’ll make an easy and legal ten thousand on top of the twenty thousand we’ve already paid him. Correct?”

“Yar,” said Skriva, uneasily.

““But he’ll lose the eighty thousand yet to come. The difference is plenty big enough to ensure his absolute loyalty up to the moment he gets it in his hot little hands.”

“Yar,” repeated Skriva, brightening considerably.

“After that—zunk!” said Mowry. “Immediately he’s got his claws on the lot we’d better run like hell.”

“Hell?” Skriva stared at him. “That’s a Spakum curse-word.”

Mowry sweated a bit as he replied offhandedly, “Sure it is. One picks up all sorts of bad language in wartime, especially on Diracta.”

“Ah, yes, on Diracta.” echoed Skriva, mollified. He got out the car. “I’ll go see this jailer. We’ll have to move fast. Phone me this time tomorrow, hi?”

“All right.”

Mowry remained where he was until the other’s dyno had gone from sight. Then he jockeyed his own off the verge and drove into Pertane.