Somebody had said something to him. He scowled and halted.
“I beg your pardon.”
It was one of his senior secretaries, stationed immediately outside his office. What was her confounded name? Yes, Jet Pirincin.
“Coaid Westley. A new report has just come in. Our glorious armies are everywhere victorious. They have pressed an average of more than twenty miles across the borders of the aggressor.”
“Let me see it,” he muttered, halting at her desk. “The computers didn’t figure on an advance quite that fast.”
She held out a portable scanner for him.
He grunted. “Everywhere victorious?” he asked sarcastically. “They haven’t even come in contact with the enemy yet.”
“The funkers are in full retreat,” she said. “Even their navy. It all remains submerged, afraid to come to blows with our ships.”
Ross looked at her. “See these reports get on my desk.” He handed back the scanner and headed again for his office.
He tried to remember the figures on the size of the Betastani navy. As he recalled, it was on the smallish side and consisted almost entirely of lighter craft. Possibly the girl was right and the enemy ships were afraid to come to blows with their heavier Alphaland opponents.
Martha Taylor was waiting in his inner quarters. She sat primly on the edge of the most uncomfortable chair in the room, a lettercase in her lap.
He took his own chair and said wearily, “Coaid Taylor?”
She stood and put the folder before him.
“The atrocity releases,” she said.
“The what?”
“The atrocities,” she told him. “Four of them, so far. Mobs of uncontrolled slum elements in New Betatown roaming the streets, breaking into the houses of citizens of Alphaland and destroying their furniture, burning their possessions, beating them sometimes to death, all while Betastani police look on laughing.”
“Holy Jumping Zen!” he blurted. “How do you know? How could you get such a report?”
It was her turn to look blank. She said, “Assistant Deputy Bauserman himself wrote it up.”
He shook his head, realizing that he hadn’t been concentrating. This was, after all, the department of propaganda. He was comparatively new to the job, but he wasn’t that naive.
“What else?” he said.
She put a paper before him. “Two Temple Monks crucified and their Temple burned to the ground. Three Nuns hospitalized after being raped.”
He closed his eyes briefly at that one.
“What else?”
“The President of Betastan has issued orders that his armies take no prisoners of war.”
“That’s going to be refuted awfully quickly. They have access to the airwaves, too. Besides, President Alf Mortuary is internationally known as a bumbling, easygoing old figurehead—not as a fire-eater who orders prisoners shot.”
Her dried out, sexless face expressed doubt. “Perhaps we could report him fleeing the country for sanctuary in Moravia. Then we could hang the Karlist label on him that much more strongly, since Moravia is now in the hands of the Karlists.”
Ross looked up at her. “Listen, here in my own office, let’s stick to reality.”
“I beg your pardon, Coaid Deputy?”
“The Karlists aren’t in control of Moravia, and you know it. And you also know that old Mortuary isn’t a Karlist. He doesn’t have enough brains to be a Karlist.”
Martha Taylor did a double take. “Why, Coaid…”
“What’s the fourth release?” he asked wearily.
“Betastani civilians, resident here in Alphaland, are blowing up bridges, destroying communication lines, cutting pneumatic pressure lines.”
“Oh, now, that’s too raw. Remember, this material goes out all over the planet. No neutral is going to swallow that.”
She was wide-eyed. “But, Coaid, that’s the one that’s really true.”
“What?”
She held up another report. “Evidently bands of them are all over the countryside. Deputy Fielder has ordered out over half his Surety men. Thousands of Betastani nationals have taken to our woods, the mountains, and are committing endless depredations.”
“Holy Jumping Zen ” Ross muttered. “Tilly.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Listen, take all this to Coaid Bauserman and tell him I said to use his discretion.”
“Yes, Coaid Deputy.”
“And don’t bother me with such stuff in the future. It’s strictly routine anyway, isn’t it?”
“Well,” she seemed upset “I suppose so, Coaid Deputy.”
“All right, toss it into Bausennan’s lap. It had a tendency to nauseate me.”
When she was gone, after flashing her shock at him, he realized he had gone too far. Well, the hell with it. He realized, too, that he disliked the presence of Coaid Martha Taylor, that she made him nervous.
He switched on his orderbox and said into it. “Rundown of latest dispatches. Verbal.”
The orderbox said, ” The government of the arch-criminal Alf Mortuary has deserted the capital, New Betatown, and its present location is unknown. Rumors are that it is fleeing the country.”
Ross grunted. That was surprisingly similar to the propaganda release Martha Taylor had just recommended.
The report continued. ” Contact between the glorious avenging armies of Alphaland and the retreating Betastan forces has yet to be made. Our armies are at some points now fifty miles into the interior. Advance elements are slowing, to allow supply columns to come up and to repair roads, bridges and communications lines destroyed by the retreating enemy. Alphaland air units have complete control of the skies. Enemy aircraft have as yet been uncommitted.
“On the home front, Deputy John Matheison of the (Commissariat of Finance has announced that his organization is working around the clock reestablishing order in the medium of exchange. He has warned unpatriotic elements that taking advantage of the present credit situation can lead to legal prosecution, and, since the nation is at war defending itself against the aggressors of Betastan, the death penalty can be suffered.”
Ross Westley hissed surprise through his teeth. Jon Matheison must have his troubles indeed, to get that tough. Evidently many a less than loyal citizen of Alphaland was taking advantage of the chaos to enrich himself. Ross was almost amused. It was going to be all but impossible to apprehend any such opportunists. Business was in such a state of unbelievable confusion that he wondered at Number One’s decision to get the war under way before the financial mess had been cleaned up.
He said into the orderbox, “That will be all,” and then slumped back and stared at it. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortably, unhappily. And suddenly he came to his feet. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to try and find out what had happened to her.
Ross Westley strode quickly toward the closet-like receptacle of his one-seated private pneumatic.
There was a Surety man in riot police uniform, standing before the bookshop which had been the front for Tilly Trice. When Ross came up the brawny agent looked at him scowlingly.
“Move along, Coaid,” he said.
Ross Westley considered for a moment, but the urge was upon him. He brought forth his wallet and showed the other his credentials. The Surety man snapped to attention, eyes forward.
“Yes, Coaid Deputy.”
Ross said, “What’re you doing here, Coaid?”
“Yes, Coaid Deputy. This is the former business and residence of a Betastani national. I have been posted to guard it against neighborhood reprisal, until a thorough search of the premises can be made.”
Ross nodded. “I see. Protection against demonstrators, eh?”
“Yes, Coaid Deputy. Only it seems that this Tilly Trice was kinda popular around the neighborhood, even if she was a Betastani cloddy. So not even the kids’ve thrown any rocks or anything. They don’t need me here.”
Ross winked at him. “Well
, I’m glad I arrived before the search squad. I hope you have the key, Coaid.”
The Surety man showed his surprise. “Yes, Coaid Deputy. Uh, why?”
Ross winked again. “This enemy shop used to sell ancient first edition books, that sort of thing. I’m a collector. I’d like to, ah, take a look around before the place is ransacked. By the way, give me your name—I like a cooperative man. Never know when I might be able to do you a favor.”
Three minutes later he was in the shop where a hundred times over he had been with the girl he loved. He closed the door behind him.
His eyes went over the shelves of books. In actuality, he wasn’t particularly interested in the old style books of paper; Tilly’s own interest, however, had been genuine and it was all part of her. On her worktable sat a half assembled volume which he remembered she had been rebinding, glue pot and leather scraps to one -side. He wondered vaguely what the interruption had been.
Had Surety agents knocked on the front door, sending her scurrying out the rear? Had she heard radio reports and headed for some secret hideaway? He couldn’t imagine her giving up the fray. Somewhere in Alphaland the diminutive Tilly Trice was still holding forth. He suspected that she was among those guerrillas causing trouble to the transport and communications systems. It might be weeks before all of them were rounded up. He felt the cold go through him. Mark Fielder’s heavies weren’t going to be particularly gentle with the saboteurs. She could well be hurt, if not killed, in the skirmishing that was sure to ensue.
He looked around the little shop, knowing that whatever happened it could never be the same again. And he wondered why he had to come. To see if he could find some indication of where she might be? Hardly probable. Tilly Trice, Betastan espionage agent, was not so inept as to leave a clue for Surety men to follow up.
He walked back toward her living quarters in the rear. There were, he knew, her tiny living room, her still smaller bedroom, an auto-chef table in a dinette, and, of course, a refresher room. All very compact. All very much the home of a feminine bachelor.
He picked up an object here, one there, with which he affiliated her. A book she had evidently been reading, before she had gone on the run.
Ross looked at the title and winced. Guerrilla Warfare, by Ho Chi Ming.
He tossed the book back to the side table and wandered vaguely back into her bedroom. There was a feeling of empty apathy in him. He stood there, eyeing her comparatively Spartan dressing table. He walked to her closet and opened the door, having in mind looking at her dresses, her suits—not exactly knowing why. And was confronted with a slightly built, youthful-faced man who held at the easy ready a very efficient looking handgun trained on Ross Westley’s belly.
Had the other been a winged angel with a triple set of halos, Ross Westley couldn’t have been more taken aback. He gaped at the gunman.
The newcomer, not moving, his gun hand not shifting the aim one iota, looked at Ross with a surly expression.
“I’m afraid we’re not very well met, fella,” he said.
Ross blurted, “What… what… ?”
“You said a mouthful, fella. Come along inside. You showed up at exactly the wrong time for your own good.”
“Inside?” Ross said blankly. He looked over his shoulder. But he had closed the door between the shop and these, Tilly’s living quarters, and even had it been open, the Surety man outside could not have seen to this point.
The occupant of the rather large closet made a motion with the gun. “In here, fella, with me. Just the two of us. Real chummy.” His face went cold. “Quick!”
Ross came forward, pressing into the hanging clothing, thinking the other mad. What could the possible reason be for entering the hiding place of the stranger?
He felt the gun grind into his belly, felt the other reach past him to close the door. They were instantly in darkness.
And then he gasped as the floor began to sink. It accelerated, elevator-wise, for a brief moment, then came to a halt.
The door opened again and once more Ross gasped.
It was a large, long room of cement, as devoid of decoration as a garage. It had a military aspect, something like a defensive bunker. There were beds in tiers; there were mess hall type tables. And there were weapons of half a dozen types which Ross Westley recognized, and almost as many that he didn’t. There seemed to be a good many gadgets of the portable type around, but almost all of these, too, were unfamiliar.
From the bunks where they lay, from the chairs where they sprawled, from around the tables where they played cards or battle chess, a full score of young men looked up at the entry of Ross and his captor.
They were young men and he had the feeling that they looked even younger than they were. In fact, standing immediately beside the gunman he had found in the closet, he realized the other had undergone cosmetic surgery. He hadn’t the vaguest idea why.
Somebody chuckled from the bunk. “Well, well, Combs has brought us a new playmate. Great. I was getting sick and tired of you yokes.”
Yes, there was at least a full score of them, Ross decided. His mind was only beginning to realize the significance of this.
Those in bed swung their legs about and came erect, the card and battle chess games came to an end and all crowded around the newcomers.
“Where’d you get him, Centurion?” one of them said.
Another poked a finger in Ross’ stomach. “Flabby,” he said. “Alphaland bureaucrat. Why do all bureaucrats get flabby? You can tell a bureaucrat by his tummy.”
Combs said, “Take it easy. I think I know who this one is. I’ve seen his face on Tri-Di propaganda blasts. We’ve hit the big bell.”
Another voice said from behind him, “All right, fellas, knock it off. What’ve we got here?”
The voice was happily familiar. The ranks parted but Ross already knew who he was going to see.
“Till!” he said.
She looked at him, hands on slim hips, and shook her head, some of the old mockery there.
Combs said, “I was going up to check the street and ran into him prowling your rooms.”
“Why, Rossie!”
He flushed irritation. “I was looking for some clue to where you had gone.” He looked around at the rest of them, now flanking her on both sides. “Are you all drivel-happy, hiding here? Do you realize there’s a Surety agent stationed out front and that as soon as Mark Fielder’s men get around to it, they’ll tear this place apart looking for clues?”
She grinned at him. “I rather doubt it, Rossie. Oh, I don’t mean they won’t tear the shop apart, stealing what they want and vandalizing most of the rest. But they’ll do a halfhearted job and finally call it quits, padlock the place and go on to the next former residence of a Betastani, hoping for more lucrative loot. Not in a dozen years, unless they suspected it was there to find, would they spot the closet-elevator arrangement.
“It’s an old, old wheeze, Rossie. The safest place to hide something is right under the eyes of the searcher. The Purloined Letter bit. Can you think of anywhere in Alphacity where the Surety boys would be less likely to look for me than right here in my own house?”
He shook his head in wonder at her gall, then he looked around at the others accusingly. “You’re all spies.”
The smiling one who had commented earlier on his flabby stomach grinned. “Not exactly, old fella. We’re more like guerrillas, eh? See, we’re in uniform. Naughty, naughty, if old Deputy Fielder’s men caught us and tried to line us up before a firing squad. Against all the rules of war.”
“You call that a uniform?” Ross snorted. “You look like boy scouts.”
“That’s the way we’re supposed to look, fella,” another one laughed.
Ross was getting tired of this. Besides, he had found Tilly now; he wanted to make sure of her safety.
He said, “You’d all better consider yourselves under arrest and in my custody. I’ll see you get honorable treatment.”
The one who had orig
inally captured him grunted surly amusement. “Fella, you’ve sure got it wrong.” He looked at Tilly and said, deadly serious now, “We’ll have to crisp him, he’s seen too much.”
Tilly shook her head. “Impossible,” she said, her voice tart.
Somebody else frowned. “There’s no alternative. He’s seen the place. There’s no way of shutting him up otherwise. And there’s no way we can keep him under wraps here indefinitely.”
Tilly still shook her head. “Even if the rest of it were okay, you’re not thinking it out. That Surety man up above saw him come in. He’s going to begin wondering, and fairly soon, why he doesn’t come out again. So… he’s got to come out.”
“But he’ll put the blast on us the moment he’s free!”
Tilly shook her head, her mouth pursed in a rueful smile. “No, he won’t. You see, I think I’m going to marry the big cloddy when all this is over.”
That silenced them, especially Combs.
Ross said urgently, “Listen, Till, come with me. The war’s all but over, anyway. There isn’t anything more you can do. And as things are you’re running one devil of a risk. Your people are committing criminal acts all over the countryside. Mark Fielder’s going to get tough. His men are bad, Till. Call it quits now. I keep telling you the war’s over.”
Combs said grimly, “To the contrary, fella. It hasn’t hardly started.”
Ross swirled on him. “Hasn’t started! Your largest cities have capitulated. Your navy refuses to show its face. Your army is retreating so fast we can’t catch up with it. Our computers, reprogrammed to handle the new factors, say the complete collapse of your government will take place within the week.” He snorted. “What do your computers say?”
Combs said, “We haven’t consulted them, fella.”
“No more time,” Tilly said, “Altshuler, take him up above—one moment. Rossie, look at me.”
He looked into her face, distressed.
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