The Second Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

  Rhuling looked at him speculatively. “We’ll see just how stupid and phony you are, Porras. I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re going to wind up in a Psychotherapy Institute, Citizen.”

  “Yeah? Listen, my stute pal, I got a lot of friends, understand? You’ll have a time getting me into a pressure cooker.”

  “We’ll see,” the DS man said grimly. He turned and started for the door. “See you later, Rosy.”

  Rosy Porras scowled after him. It didn’t do a man any good to have the DS on his tail. He wondered uncomfortably what he had done to draw their attention. In this age, a grifter’s first need was to remain inconspicuous.

  * * * *

  Rosy Porras was already late but he was taking no chances. He drove his hovercar into the downtown area and into the heaviest of traffic and then spent the next twenty minutes doubling and doubling back still again. All he needed was for some snooper such as Rhuling to be shadowing him.

  Evidently, he was clear. He finally left the car in the parking cellars of a large hotel and made his way to one of the popular auto-bars above. He found an empty booth and dialed a drink, putting his credit card on the receipt screen. This was one of the few things he had to use his own skimpy credits for. He sipped the drink slowly and checked the occupants of the other tables unobtrusively.

  When he was convinced of their innocence, he let his finger thump twice on the table and Pop Rasch and Marvin Zogbaum came over and sat down with him.

  Pop Rasch, a heavy-set, gray-faced man with obvious false teeth, said sourly, “Where in Zen you been? We were about to fold the whole job.”

  Rosy said, “A snooper from the DS police turned up and grilled me at the apartment.”

  Pop said, “Oh, oh.”

  Porras waved a hand negatively. “It was nothing. Just routine.”

  “How’d he know where to find you?”

  “I suppose they got ways. Anyway, I guess I’d better move on. We been working this town too hard anyway. Maybe I’ll go out to the West Coast.”

  Marvin Zogbaum, a clerkish looking type and out of setting with these two, said nervously, “Well, I suppose then we’d better call off tonight’s, ah, romp.”

  “Romp,” Rosy snorted at him. “You been watching those telly detective shows? You oughta stick to the fracases, Marv.” His tone held deprecation.

  Zogbaum said defensively, “I’ll watch whatever I please, Porras.”

  “O.K., O.K.,” Pop Rasch said. “Let’s not get into a silly argument. That’s just what we need right in the middle of a job. What’d you say, Rosy? Should we call it all off?”

  Rosy Porras grumbled. “Can’t afford to now. We need a good taw, in case of emergencies.”

  Mary Zogbaum said, still miffed, “Maybe you do, but I work in my category. I’ve got a job and I’m clean.”

  Rosy snorted. “You’re about as clean as a mud pack. You put in minimum time on that job of yours and live like some of these Uppers holding down premium positions on double hours. The first time the DS gets around to checking you, you’re going to be doing some fast talking.”

  Pop Rasch said, “And all we have to do is start squabbling among ourselves and we’ll all wind up in a Category Medicine Psychotherapy flat-house learning to adjust to society.” He grimaced at the thought.

  Rosy said, “Listen, let’s get going. We’ve been casing this job for weeks. There’s no point in panicking out now. Nothing’s happened except a DS snooper named Rhuling talked to me for ten minutes.”

  “Rhuling!” Rasch said.

  Rosy looked at him. “Somebody you know?”

  “He’s from Neuve Albuquerque. A real burn off stute. One of those yokes who takes his work seriously. I got a friend that ran into this Willard Rhuling.”

  Mary Zogbaum blinked. “What happened to him?”

  “What’d ya think happened to him? He’s got a silly job now stooging for some Category Research technician, or something. Why, when I see him on the street, he’s hard put to remember me. Brainwashed.”

  Rosy Porras got to his feet and growled, “Let’s get going. It’s late as it is.”

  Mary Zogbaum brought up the rear, disgruntled, but he followed.

  They took Pop Rasch’s heavy sedan to the records section of the Administration Building, which they had already cased thoroughly. They parked half a block down from the side entry. Pop and Mary Zog baum sat in the front seat, Rosy in the back.

  Rosy opened the overnight bag which Rasch and Zogbaum had brought along and unfolded a long, pipelike device. He screwed an object resembling a wind instrument’s mouthpiece to the end.

  He said, “You’re sure of these details, eh?”

  “Yes, yes,” Zogbaum said nervously. “He’s the only one in the building at night. He sets up various routine matters for the day shift. But for all I know, he’s already gone in. I think we’re late. Perhaps we’d better put it off.”

  “Don’t be a funker,” Rosy grunted.

  “Here comes somebody now,” Pop Rasch growled softly.

  “It’s him,” Zogbaum whispered. “Are you sure . . .”

  “Knock it,” Rosy said.

  The lone pedestrian passed without looking at them. When he had gone a dozen feet or so, Rosy Porras rested his pipe on the ledge of the window and puffed a heavy breath of air into the mouthpiece.

  The pedestrian clapped a hand to his neck as though swatting a mosquito, and went on.

  Rosy grinned. He began taking his device apart again. “There’s the world for you,” he told his companions. “The simpler things you use, the bigger the wrench you can throw into the most complicated machinery these double domes can dream up. A blowgun!”

  Pop Rasch said, “This was your idea, Rosy. How soon will it hit him?”

  “In about fifteen minutes. Then he’ll go out like a light and wake up in maybe six hours with a blockbuster headache, but no memory of anything but sleeping.”

  “That’ll give us plenty of time to finish the, uh”—Zogbaum looked at Rosy defiantly—”romp and leave the place all cleaned up so nobody’ll ever know we’ve been there. Six hours is plenty of time.”

  Pop Rasch looked at him. “Why don’t you take a trank,” he said. “Nothing to be nervous about. All we gotta do is sit here for twenty minutes.”

  “I can’t afford to be tranked,” Zogbaum said, “and I hate to wait.”

  * * * *

  At the end of the twenty minutes they left the car and walked unhurriedly to the door of the building which the lone pedestrian had entered. The street was deserted at this time of night. Pop Rasch carried the valise.

  Pop looked up and down the street as a double check, then hunkered down. The lock on the door yielded to his efforts in a matter of minutes.

  Pop Rasch sighed and said, “They don’t make them the way they used to. No challenge, like.” He added, a note of nostalgia in his voice, “They don’t even have watchmen, anymore.”

  Rosy Porras entered first. He looked up and down the halls. Some lights were burning. Not many. The Administration Building was inoperative at night.

  “All clear,” he said. “Let’s go.” Automatically, he shrugged his shoulders to loosen his harness and have the feel of the handgun ready to be drawn.

  They proceeded down the hall. Pop Rasch had a simple chart of the building in his hand. They turned several corners, finally emerged into a long room banked with Tabulaters, Collaters, Sorters and Computers. Leading off it, in turn, were several rooms of punched-card files, tape files, shelves of bound reports.

  “O.K.,” Pop said to Mary Zogbaum. “Now you’re the boss. Go to it. Just for luck, I’m going to look up that cloddy Rosy claims is going to be sleeping for the rest of the night.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Rosy growled. “He’s got enough dope to keep him under.”

  “Just the same,” Pop said, “double-checking never hurt nobody—especially since he’s the only guy in the building.”

  Mary Zogbaum wet his lips nervously
and entered the first of the file rooms, after taking up the valise. He opened the bag and brought forth a sheaf of closely typed reports.

  He said importantly, “Now you two leave me alone. I have to concentrate.” He fished from the valise a small manually operated card punch.

  “Take it away, fella,” Rosy said tolerantly. “I’m the heavy. I’ll stand guard.”

  Pop Rasch left on his checking mission.

  * * * *

  Rosy Porras had remained free to operate on the wrong side of a society that was supposedly crime free, only by exercising an instinct for self-preservation that had served him well on more than one occasion when he found himself in the dill.

  Something didn’t feel right now.

  Pop Rasch, an old pro, capable of becoming bored even while on a job, had sunk into a swivel chair and had actually drifted off into a fitful sleep, snoring raspingly.

  Marvin Zogbaum was busy in the files, humming and sometimes whistling to himself in concentration. He’d pull a card here, another there, sometimes substituting one from the valise, sometimes punching another hole or so. On several occasions, he displaced whole boxes of tapes, or cards, and actually stored three of them away in the bag.

  Rosy Porras, suddenly unhappy, left the room and retraced the route by which they’d progressed through the building.

  Everything looked the same.

  He returned to the door by which they had entered, and opened it a fraction to peer out along the darkened street.

  There were three hovercars that hadn’t been present earlier, parked out there.

  He closed the door quickly. His face was expressionless. The gun slid into his hand as though wizard-commanded. He stood for a long moment in thought, then moved in quick decision.

  He paralleled the wall for several hundred feet, along the semidark hallway, then stopped by a window. It took a while for his eyes to accustom themselves to the dark outside. Across the road was a small park, benches, trees, bushes, a small fountain.

  There was a man quietly sitting on a bench alone. After a time Rosy Porras was able to make out two other figures standing behind tree trunks.

  There was no doubt about how things stood now. The whole thing had pickled. Rosy moistened dry lips.

  He hurried back to the room where Mary Zogbaum labored over the punched cards and tape files. Pop Rasch still slumbered fitfully.

  Rosy fumbled through the report sheets which Zogbaum had brought with him. He kept his voice even. “You finished with this one of Dave Shriner?” he said to Mary Zogbaum. Zogbaum looked up impatiently. “Shriner, Shriner? I don’t remember them by name.”

  Rosy said, “Code 22D-11411-88M.”

  “Oh, that one. Yes,” Zogbaum muttered. “All finished. Don’t bother me now. I’ve got a dozen to go.”

  “O.K.,” Rosy said. Unobtrusively, he put the report sheet in his pocket and left the room.

  He walked softly by Pop Rasch and made his way back into the corridor. He set off at a pace for the far side of the great building, making his way by instinct and quick animal reasoning rather than by knowledge of this part of the establishment.

  Up one corridor and down another.

  It was a matter of ditching the other two. Pop Rasch was too old to move fast enough and Zogbaum was too jittery in the dill to trust. The situation had pickled now and it was each man for himself.

  He came finally to a window that opened on a dark alley-like entryway. He peered through it. Could see nothing.

  He flicked the window’s simple lock and drew it aside. He threw a leg over the sill and dropped to the ground below.

  A voice chuckled and said, “Got you, you funker!” Rosy Porras felt arms go around his body.

  He dropped suddenly, letting his legs go from under him so that the full weight of his husky body was on the other’s arms. He fell on through, his buttocks hitting the ground. Without aim, he threw a pile-driving punch upward and struck low into the other’s stomach.

  The voice that had chuckled but a moment ago, gave out with a deep groan of anguish. Rosy rolled quickly, came to his feet and lashed out at the other with both hands. It was too dark to strike accurately, but he could tell the other had crumpled. The gun was in his hand again and he peered down, indecisively. He had no time to make sure of the other. He spun quickly and ran for the entryway’s head.

  He paused a moment there and looked out. The way seemed clear. This part of the Administration Building opened onto the back of extensive offices, devoted to lower echelon workers. He holstered the gun.

  * * * *

  Rosy Porras walked rapidly, but kept himself from a run. It was a matter now of relying on the good fortune his name promised. It was a matter of getting a hovercab before things exploded behind him.

  But even as he hurried toward a more traffic ridden street, his mind was checking back, reevaluating. Whatever had gone wrong, shouldn’t have. It was all but impossible. Neither Zogbaum, nor certainly Pop Rasch would have purposely betrayed them. Not any way that he could figure it.

  He went back over the day. There had been nothing untoward until the appearance of the DS man, Willard Rhuling. Could he have said anything to Rhuling that had given the other a clue? No. Was there any way in which Rhuling could have tailed him? No. He had taken every precaution and then, after he had met the others, they had once again made sure they were not being followed.

  He reached an entertainment area, hurried to a cab park. He began to dial the coordinates of his apartment, but then brought himself up sharp. He dialed the address of a hotel nearby instead.

  He leaned back in the hovercab and forced his mind along the path of the past few days. No, there was nothing until Rhuling had shown up. His lips thinned in a grimace of rage. The cool, efficient effrontery of the DS snooper. The way he’d calmly entered the Porras apartment and then had the nerve to run his hands over Rosy’s body checking for a gun. The frisking!

  That was it! Rosy Porras quickly ran his hands through his pockets, the pockets Willard Rhuling had touched. He found it nestled down beneath a key ring and a cigarette lighter. A tiny device, no bigger than a shirt button.

  Rosy stared at it and snarled. He threw it out into the street. A subminiature direction transmitter! Rhuling had planted it on him back there in the apartment and the DS operatives then had been able to tail him at their leisure. A trick as simple as that. Pop Rasch would have laughed him to scorn.

  They probably had Pop by now, and Mary Zogbaum, too. And here he was on the run, simply because he’d been too stupid to consider the possibility of his having a bug planted on him.

  He left the hovercab at the hotel near his apartment house. He walked through the lobby, passing by the auto-bar although he would have given years of his life right now for a quick double shot of guzzle. He emerged by a side door and strolled in the direction of his apartment. He couldn’t make up his mind whether or not he had the time to spend five minutes gathering up… No, he didn’t. A hovercar zoomed down before him and immediately in front of his building. Rosy Porras stepped into a doorway.

  It was Rhuling, the DS operative. He vaulted from the open car and hurried toward the door.

  “That’s that,” Rosy growled. It wasn’t as though it was disastrous. Rosy Porras had decided long ago in his career that times would come when a complete abandonment of all luggage and belongings would be necessary. To the extent that you could divorce yourself from such impedimenta, you were better off. He reentered the hotel by the entry he had left it only moments before, and ordered a cab. While he waited, he went into the auto-bar and dialed a double shot.

  At a phone booth, he looked up the address coordinates of David Shriner and noted them down on the report he had surreptitiously taken from Mary Zogbaum.

  In the hovercab he dialed the coordinates of Shriner’s apartment house and let his mind churn over half-formed plans.

  The hour was getting on by the time he stood before the screen in Shriner’s door. Rosy Porras snapped th
e fingers of his right hand in a fine case of jitters and muttered obscenities at the delay.

  Shriner’s plump face lit up the screen and he grinned. “Rosy!” he said. “Come on in.”

  Rosy Porras pushed the door and emerged into the entrada and then went on through into the ample living room. In a moment, Shriner appeared, yawning, from a bedroom. He wore a robe over pajamas. Shriner was a second-string telly actor, noted for his comedy and exuberance.

  He closed the door behind him and made a gesture with his head. “Ruth’s asleep,” he said. “Keep it low. I thought the deal was you were never to come here.”

  Rosy growled something and made his way over to the auto-bar where he dialed himself a double brandy.

  Shriner said excitedly, “How did it go? Everything all set?”

  Rosy took his drink back to a chair and slumped into it, suddenly very weary.

  “Listen, Dave,” he said, “a wheel came off. We’re in the dill. You’ve got to help me.”

  The other’s face froze. “What…what happened? Now look here, Rosy, I didn’t commit myself to doing any more than . . .”

  “Knock it,” Rosy snapped. “Who’d you think you were playing with, some cloddy with a penny ante racket? I’ve made arrangements to put plenty of credit to your account in the past and the things you kicked back weren’t as much as all that. You’re in this now, if you want to be or not and the only way of helping yourself is helping me.”

  Shriner, a short chubby man, good living oozing from his skin, went to the auto-bar and shakily dialed himself a twin of his visitor’s drink. He turned back to Rosy Porras and said, “How did the romp pickle?”

  Rosy ignored the word that irritated him and summed it up briefly. “We were halfway through the job when the DS police showed up. I got away, the others were probably caught.”

  “What are you going to do?” the actor said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.