Golden Age of Science Fiction Vol X

by Various

  "Part of it?" Quillan asked.

  "Uh-huh. An even hundred similar cubicles will be unloaded from the Camelot--the bulk of the haul; which is why Nome Lancion is supervising things on the liner. I started to ask what was in the cubicles, but I saw Fluel was beginning to lose that blank look they have under Truth, and switched back to light chitchat just before he woke up. Yaco's paying for the job--or rather, it will pay for the stuff, on delivery, and no questions asked."

  "That's not very much help, is it?" Quillan said after a moment. "Something a big crooked industrial combine like Yaco thinks it can use--"

  "It must expect to be able to use it to extremely good advantage," Reetal said. "The Brotherhood will collect thirty million credits for their part of the operation. The commodore's group presumably won't do any worse." She glanced past Quillan toward the room portal. "It's O.K., Heraga! Come in."

  * * * * *

  Sher Heraga was a lean, dark-skinned little man with a badly bent nose, black curly hair, and a nervous look. He regretted, he said, that he hadn't been able to uncover anything which might be a lead to the location of the bomb. Apparently, it wasn't even being guarded. And, of course, a bomb of the size required here would be quite easy to conceal.

  "If they haven't placed guards over it," Reetal agreed, "it'll take blind luck to spot it! Unless we can get hold of one of the men who knows where it's planted--"

  There was silence for some seconds. Then Quillan said, "Well, if we can't work out a good plan, we'd better see what we can do with one of the bad ones. Are the commodore's security men wearing uniforms?"

  Heraga shook his head, "Not the ones I saw."

  "Then here's an idea," Quillan said. "As things stand, barging into the Executive Block with a small armed group can't accomplish much. It might be more interesting than sitting around and waiting to be blown up, but it still would be suicide. However, if we could get things softened up and disorganized in there first--"

  "Softened up and disorganized how?" Reetal asked.

  "We can use that notion you had of having Heraga float in another diner. This time, I'm on board--in a steward's uniform, in case the guards check."

  "They didn't the first time," Heraga said.

  "Sloppy of them. Well, they're just gun hands. Anyway, once we're inside I shuck off the uniform and get out. Heraga delivers his goodies, and leaves again--"

  Reetal gave him a look. "You'll get shot down the instant you're seen, dope!"

  "I think not. There're two groups in there--around a hundred men in all--and they haven't had time to get well acquainted yet. I'll have my gun in sight, and anyone who sees me should figure I belong to the other group, until I run into one of the Brotherhood boys who knows me personally."

  "Then that's when you get shot down. I understand the last time you and the Duke of Fluel met, he woke up with lumps."

  "The Duke doesn't love me," Quillan admitted. "But there's nothing personal between me and Movaine or Marras Cooms--and I'll have a message for Movaine."

  "What kind of a message?"

  "I'll have to play that by ear a little. It depends on how things look in there. But I have a few ideas, based on what you've learned of the operation. Now, just what I can do when I get that far, I don't know yet. I'll simply try to louse the deal up as much as I can. That may take time, and, of course, it might turn out to be impossible to get word out to you."

  "So what do we do meanwhile?" Reetal asked. "If we start lining up our attack group immediately, and then there's no action for another five or six hours, there's always the chance of a leak, with around twenty people in the know."

  "And if there's a leak," Quillan agreed, "we've probably had it. No, you'd better wait with that! If I'm not out, and you haven't heard from me before the Camelot's actually due to dock, Heraga can still take the group--everyone but yourself--in as scheduled."

  "Why everyone but me?" Reetal asked.

  "If nothing else works, you might find some way of getting a warning to the liner's security force after they've docked. It isn't much of a possibility, but we can't afford to throw it away."

  "Yes, I see." Reetal looked reflective. "What do you think, Heraga?"

  The little man shrugged. "You told me that Mr. Quillan is not inexperienced in dealing with, ah, his enemies. If he feels he might accomplish something in the Executive Block, I'm in favor of the plan. The situation certainly could hardly become worse."

  "That's the spirit!" Quillan approved. "The positive outlook--that's what a think like this mainly takes. Can you arrange for the diner and the uniform?"

  "Oh, yes," Heraga said, "I've had myself put in charge of that detail, naturally."

  "Then what can you tell me about the Executive Block's layout?"

  Reetal stood up. "Come over to the desk," she said. "We've got diagrams."

  * * * * *

  "The five levels, as you see," Heraga was explaining a few moments later, "are built directly into the curve of the Star's shells. Level Five, on the top, is therefore quite small. The other levels are fairly extensive. Two, Three, and Four could each accommodate a hundred men comfortably. These levels contain mainly living quarters, private offices, and the like. The Brotherhood men appear to be occupying the fourth level, Velladon's group the second. The third may be reserved for meetings between representatives of the two groups. All three of these levels are connected by single-exit portals to the large entrance area on the ground level.

  "The portals stood open when I went in earlier today, and there were about twenty armed men lounging about the entrance hall. I recognized approximately half of them as being members of the Star's security force. The others were unfamiliar." Heraga cleared his throat. "There is a possibility that the two groups do not entirely trust each other."

  Quillan nodded. "If they're playing around with something like sixty million CR, anybody would have to be crazy to trust the Brotherhood of Beldon. The transmitter room and the control officers are guarded, too?"

  "Yes, but not heavily," Heraga said. "There seem to be only a few men stationed at each of those points. Ostensibly, they're there as a safe-guard--in case the imaginary raiders attempt to break out of the subspace section."

  "What's the arrangement of the ordinary walk-in tube portals in the Executive Block?"

  "There is one which interconnects the five levels. On each of the lower levels, there are, in addition, several portals which lead out to various points in the Seventh Star Hotel. On the fifth level, there is only one portal of this kind. Except for the portal which operates between the different levels in the Executive Block, all of them have been rendered unusable at present."

  "Unusable in what way?"

  "They have been sealed off on the Executive Block side."

  "Can you get me a diagram of the entry and exit systems those outgoing portals connect with?" Quillan asked. "I might turn one of them usable again."

  "Yes, I can do that."

  "How about the communication possibilities?"

  "The ComWeb system is functioning normally on the second, third, and fourth levels. It has been shut off on the first level--to avoid the spread of 'alarming rumors' by office personnel. There is no ComWeb on the fifth level."

  Reetal said, "We'll shift our operating headquarters back to my registered suite then. The ComWebs are turned off in these vacant sections. I'll stay in the other suite in case you find a chance to signal in."

  Heraga left a few minutes later to make his arrangements. Reetal smiled at Quillan, a little dubiously.

  "Good luck, guy," she said. "Anything else to settle before you start off?"

  Quillan nodded. "Couple of details. If you're going to be in your regular suite, and Fluel finds himself with some idle time on hand, he might show up for the dalliance you mentioned."

  Reetal's smile changed slightly. Her left hand fluffed the hair at the back of her head, flicked down again. There was a tiny click, and Quillan looked at a small jeweled hair-clasp in her palm, its needle b
eak pointing at him.

  "It hasn't got much range," Reetal said, "but within ten feet it will scramble the Duke's brains just as thoroughly as they need to be scrambled."

  "Good enough," Quillan said. "Just don't give that boy the ghost of a chance, doll. He has a rep for playing very unnice games with the ladies."

  "I know his reputation." Reetal replaced the tiny gun in her hair. "Anything else?"

  "Yes. Let's look in on the Kinmarten chick for a moment. If she's awake, she may have remembered something or other by now that she didn't think to tell you."

  They found Solvey Kinmarten awake, and tearfully glad to see Reetal. Quillan was introduced as a member of the legal profession who would do what he could for Solvey and her husband. Solvey frowned prettily, trying very hard to remember anything that might be of use. But it appeared that she had told Reetal all she knew.

  * * * * *

  The blue and white Phalagon House diner, driven by Heraga, was admitted without comment into the Executive Block. It floated on unchallenged through the big entry hall and into a corridor. Immediately behind the first turn of the corridor, the diner paused a few seconds. Its side door opened and closed. The diner moved on.

  Quillan, coatless and with the well-worn butt of a big Miam Devil Special protruding from the holster on his right hip, came briskly back along the corridor. Between fifteen and twenty men, their guns also conspicuously in evidence, were scattered about the entrance hall, expressions and attitudes indicating a curious mixture of boredom and uneasy tension. The eyes of about half of them swiveled around to Quillan when he came into the hall; then, with one exception, they looked indifferently away again.

  The exception, leaning against the wall near the three open portals to the upper levels, continued to stare as Quillan came toward him, forehead creased in a deep scowl as if he were painfully ransacking his mind for something. Quillan stopped in front of him.

  "Chum," he asked, "any idea where Movaine is at the moment? They just give me this message for him--"

  Still scowling, the other scratched his chin and blinked. "Uh ... dunno for sure," he said after a moment. "He oughta be in the third level conference room with the rest of 'em. Uh ... dunno you oughta barge in there right now, pal! The commodore's reee-lly hot about somethin'!"

  Quillan looked worried. "Gotta chance it, I guess! Message is pretty important, they say--" He turned, went through the center portal of the three, abruptly found himself walking along a wide, well-lit hall.

  Nobody in sight here, or in the first intersecting passage he came to. When he reached the next passage, he heard voices on the right, turned toward them, went by a string of closed doors on both sides until, forty feet on, the passage angled again and opened into a long, high-ceilinged room. The voices came through an open door on the right side of the room. Standing against the wall beside the door were two men whose heads turned sharply toward Quillan as he appeared in the passage. The short, chunky one scowled. The big man next to him, the top of whose head had been permanently seared clear of hair years before by a near miss from a blaster, dropped his jaw slowly. His eyes popped.

  "My God!" he said.

  "Movaine in there, Baldy?" Quillan inquired, coming up.

  "Movaine! He ... you ... how--"

  The chunky man took out his gun, waved it negligently at Quillan. "Tell the ape to blow, Perk. He isn't wanted here."

  "Ape?" Quillan asked softly. His right hand moved, had the gun by the barrel, twisted, reversed the gun, jammed it back with some violence into the chunky man's stomach. "Ape?" he repeated. The chunky man went white.

  "Bad News--" Baldy Perk breathed. "Take it easy! That's Orca. He's the commodore's torpedo. How--"

  "Where's Movaine?"

  "Movaine ... he ... uh--"

  "All right, he's not here. And Lancion can't have arrived yet. Is Cooms in there?"

  "Yeah," Baldy Perk said weakly. "Cooms is in there, Quillan."

  "Let's go in." Quillan withdrew the gun, slid it into a pocket, smiled down at Orca. "Get it back from your boss, slob. Be seeing you!"

  Orca's voice was a husky whisper.

  "You will, friend! You will!"

  * * * * *

  The conference room was big and sparsely furnished. Four men sat at the long table in its center. Quillan knew two of them--Marras Cooms, second in command of the Beldon Brotherhood's detachment here, and the Duke of Fluel, Movaine's personal gun. Going by Heraga's descriptions, the big, florid-faced man with white hair and flowing white mustaches who was doing the talking was Velladon, the commodore; while the fourth man, younger, wiry, with thinning black hair plastered back across his skull, would be Ryter, chief of the Star's security force.

  "What I object to primarily is that the attempt was made without obtaining my consent, and secretly," Velladon was saying, with a toothy grin but in a voice that shook with open fury. "And now it's been made and bungled, you have a nerve asking for our help. The problem is yours--and you better take care of it fast! I can't spare Ryter. If--"

  "Cooms," Baldy Perk broke in desperately from the door, "Bad News Quillan's here an'--"

  The heads of the four men at the table came around simultaneously. The eyes of two of them widened for an instant. Then Marras Cooms began laughing softly.

  "Now everything's happened!" he said.

  "Cooms," the commodore said testily, "I prefer not to be interrupted. Now--"

  "Can't be helped, commodore," Quillan said, moving forward, Perk shuffling along unhappily beside him. "I've got news for Movaine, and the news can't wait."

  "Movaine?" the commodore repeated, blue eyes bulging at Quillan. "Movaine! Cooms, who is this man?"

  "You're looking at Bad News Quillan," Cooms said. "A highjacking specialist, with somewhat numerous sidelines. But the point right now is that he isn't a member of the Brotherhood."

  "What!" Velladon's big fist smashed down on the table. "Now what kind of a game ... how did he get in here?"

  "Well," Quillan said mildly, "I oozed in through the north wall about a minute ago. I--"

  He checked, conscious of having created some kind of sensation. The four men at the table were staring up at him without moving. Baldy Perk appeared to be holding his breath. Then the commodore coughed, cleared his throat, drummed his fingers on the table.

  He said reflectively: "He could have news--good or bad--at that! For all of us." He chewed on one of his mustache tips, grinned suddenly up at Quillan. "Well, sit down, friend! Let's talk. You can't talk to Movaine, you see. Movaine's um, had an accident. Passed away suddenly half an hour ago."

  "Sorry to hear it," Quillan said. "That's the sort of thing that happens so often in the Brotherhood." He swung a chair around, sat down facing the table. "You're looking well tonight, Fluel," he observed.

  The Duke of Fluel, lean and dapper in silver jacket and tight-fitting silver trousers, gave him a wintry smile, said nothing.

  * * * * *

  "Now, then, friend," Velladon inquired confidentially, "just what was your business with Movaine?"

  "Well, it will come to around twenty per cent of the take," Quillan informed him. "We won't argue about a half-million CR more or less. But around twenty per."

  The faces thoughtful. After some seconds, the commodore asked, "And who's we?"

  "A number of citizens," Quillan said, "who have been rather unhappy since discovering that you, too, are interested in Lady Pendrake and her pals. We'd gone to considerable expense and trouble to ... well, her ladyship was scheduled to show up in Mezmiali, you know. And now she isn't going to show up there. All right, that's business. Twenty per--no hard feelings. Otherwise, it won't do you a bit of good to blow up the Star and the liner. There'd still be loose talk--maybe other complications, too. You know how it goes. You wouldn't be happy, and neither would Yaco. Right?"

  The commodore's massive head turned back to Cooms. "How well do you know this man, Marras?"

  Cooms grinned dryly. "Well enough."

  "Is h
e leveling?"

  "He'd be nuts to be here if he wasn't. And he isn't nuts--at least, not that way."

  "There might be a question about that," Fluel observed. He looked at the commodore. "Why not ask him for a couple of the names that are in it with him?"

  "Hagready and Boltan," Quillan said.

  Velladon chewed the other mustache tip. "I know Hagready. If he--"

  "I know both of them," Cooms said. "Boltan works highjacking crews out of Orado. Quillan operates there occasionally."

  "Pappy Boltan's an old business associate," Quillan agreed. "Reliable sort of a guy. Doesn't mind taking a few chances either."

  Velladon's protruding blue eyes measured him a moment. "We can check on those two, you know--"

  "Check away," Quillan said.

  Velladon nodded. "We will." He was silent for a second or two, then glanced over at Cooms. "There've been no leaks on our side," he remarked. "And they must have known about this for weeks! Of all the inept, bungling--"

  "Ah, don't be too hard on the Brotherhood, commodore," Quillan said. "Leaks happen. You ought to know."

  "What do you mean?" Velladon snapped.

  "From what we heard, the Brotherhood's pulling you out of a hole here. You should feel rather kindly toward them."

  The commodore stared at him reflectively. Then he grinned. "Could be I should," he said, "Did you come here alone?"

  "Yes."

  The commodore nodded. "If you're bluffing, God help you. If you're not, your group's in. Twenty per. No time for haggling--we can raise Yaco's price to cover it." He stood up, and Ryter stood up with him. "Marras," the commodore went on, "tell him what's happened. If he's half as hot as he sounds, he's the boy to put on that job. Let him get in on a little of the work for the twenty per cent. Ryter, come on. We--"

  "One moment, sir," Quillan interrupted. He took Orca's gun by the muzzle from his pocket, held it out to Velladon. "One of your men lost this thing. The one outside the door. If you don't mind--he might pout if he doesn't get it back."