“You already had spies in their organization?”
“Let us say that the Seps don’t worry me half as much as The Coor.” O’Brien spoke without turning. “I presume Miss London gave you instructions on how to meet her?”
“Yes.”
The wall swung back ahead of O’Brien. “Then I’ll have you dropped off where you may follow those instructions.”
You fatuous, self-satisfied low-opp, thought Movius. Got me right where you want me, haven’t you? You and your big head full of intricate thoughts! We’ll see, damn you!
Chapter Four
The Carhouse was a sprawling two-story building pierced by deep, gloomy ramps to the parking levels. Movius noticed the Sep slogan, EMASI! scrawled on a wall where a cleaning crew had missed it. Perhaps on purpose.
Every Man A Separate Individual!
Unless he gets stamped STANDARD first, thought Movius.
At one corner of the building an arrow sign read OFFICE. Movius followed the arrow inside, found one man, a thin, straw-colored figure whose energy ran to quick, short movements of hands and eyes.
“You Movius?”
“Yes.”
“Take these.” He handed Movius a key and note. “Down that ramp, second door on your left. It’s locker eighty.” He seemed anxious for Movius to be gone.
Movius said, “Thanks,” followed the man’s directions.
It was between shifts and the Carhouse was a cavern of echoing footfalls, distant humming of power transmitters. The locker room held a thick odor of perspiration and dust as though in colloidal suspension. It was a long narrow place, steel lockers on both sides, benches down the center. Easy to imagine the room clanging with slammed doors and hurrying men at shift change. The clothes in locker eighty smelled of machine oil, fitted him loosely. Movius ran a hand along the bottom of the locker. As he had expected, it came away greasy. He smeared a streak of the grease along one jaw, spread it around his hands, under his nails. A rag on one of the locker hooks took off some of the grease, leaving enough for effect.
From the pockets of his good suit, Movius transferred the few items he carried—identification, penknife, stylus, notepad. He rolled the good suit into a bundle, tossed it into the locker.
Clancy’s note told him to take the employee’s elevator to the City Repair Service subway, catch shuttle fifty-one to the Bennington sub-prime generator station. Movius located the elevator in a side hall, descended to the subway, boarded the shuttle. He was relieved to find he was the only passenger. What could he tell a foreman he was doing? The automatic conductor flashed DESTINATION? He punched for Bennington, took a seat by the door. Now what? He wondered. This morning the Liaitor would have turned in any Sep he found. Now I have to ask them to hide me. The shuttle began to tremble as it gathered speed. Movius leaned back, waited.
Presently, the shuttle began to slow, rocking gently. It stopped, the front light flashing BENNINGTON. Movius stepped out onto the platform, immediately felt the humming presence of the generators through his shoes. A stranger leaned against the wall at one side of the platform. Movius glanced at him, looked away. I have to act casual, he thought. He risked another look. Navvy! He was wearing off-duty browns, but his complexion was ruddy, cheeks fatter, hair a difficult color. Movius strode toward him.
Navvy pushed away from the wall. “How did you recognize me?”
“The slouch,” said Movius. “I could always tell my car by the look of you slouched against it.”
Navvy grinned. “I’ll have to work on that. Come on.”
“Where?”
“My father’s place. Were you followed?”
“Who would want to follow me?”
“The Coor’s thuggees.”
Movius remembered what O’Brien had said about followers. “There were some earlier, but I don’t think they followed me here.” He debated telling Navvy about O’Brien, decided to wait, see what the situation was.
“I suspect we’d better do some ducking about,” said Navvy. “This way.” They went into the service elevator. Navvy took it up, stopped between floors. He did something complicated to the controls with a piece of string, led the way out the escape hatch and into a conduit tunnel so low they had to bend their heads to walk. Movius heard the elevator start up behind them.
That’s a trick I’ll have to learn, he thought.
Navvy produced a tiny flashlight, picked away between the maze of pipes. His shadow was a hovering bat on the ceiling. The tunnel smelled of dampness and some chemical, acrid and biting in the nostrils. He couldn’t place it. Several times Navvy glanced back to see if Movius was still following.
“Smell the chlorine?” asked Navvy. “They caught eight Seps in here last month. Gassed them all.”
Movius felt a trapped sensation, imagined himself caught in here with the rolling clouds of gas pouring down on him. Navvy showed no sign he even considered this possibility. Movius thought of all the times he had sat behind Navvy in the car, never once suspecting him of this sort of knowledge. Never questioned how Navvy got the car to some destination. Never thought of him being a Sep. If Grace was a Sep, as O’Brien had said, then Navvy had to be one, too. And the father, also. Probably a ringleader, that one.
The tunnel branched. They took the left turning. Movius felt his neck beginning to ache from the bent-over walking. It seemed they had come five miles.
“How far have we come?” he whispered.
Navvy spoke over his shoulders in a normal tone. “A little over a mile. There’s a turning down here about a quarter of a mile. We take that for about a hundred yards to another elevator.”
The elevator well was a faintly-illuminated grey hole, narrow rungs of a ladder going up the wall beside the tunnel mouth. Navvy leaned out, grasped a rung, climbed upward. Movius followed. They came out in a sewer service dome. Navvy fiddled with the lock, opened the door a crack, peered out. “Come on.” He ducked through; Movius followed. The door clicked shut behind them.
It was another Warrenate, gloomy under the dim illumination of widely spaced street lights. Movius could distinguish the outline of the Council Hills section above the building on his right. Clouds over the hills held a rosy glow. Lights in the towering apartments had a warm look of elevated privacy. Behind one of those lights up there—Cecelia and Helmut. Or maybe they were one of the dark places. The tired muscles in his fingers reminded him he had been clenching and unclenching his fists.
“This way,” said Navvy.
They crossed the street, strolled down the walk, trying to act casual.
“We’re to meet a couple of men who’ll tell us which route is open,” said Navvy. “Lots of Bu-Con patrols out tonight.”
Three men came out from between buildings on their left, approached, walking abreast. When they were about ten feet away, Movius recognized the one on the right. The Coor’s bodyguard from the hallway outside Cecelia’s apartment. Something glinted in the man’s hand. Instinctively, Movius ducked, crying out a warning to Navvy. He dove toward the man, heard the sharp fap! of a gun over his head. The men went down before him. Movius got the gun hand, brought the edge of his other hand down hard above the bridge of the man’s nose, remembering all the times in the gym when Okashi had cautioned him to use this blow lightly. It could kill a man. The gunman went limp.
Movius rolled over, avoiding the full force of a kick aimed at his head by another of the men. It caught him on the jaw and he tasted blood. Movius rolled away, hooked a toe behind the kicker’s ankle, slammed his other foot into the man’s knee. There was a crack of broken bones. The man screamed and toppled over backwards. Movius charged to his feet, kicked a hand away from a gun pocket, brought the foot down on the man’s face. He whirled, saw Navvy rolling on the sidewalk with the third one. Movius grabbed up the fap-gun which had fallen from the body guard’s hand, waited until Navvy’s opponent rolled uppermost, and cracked the man on the head with the gun. Navvy stood up, feeling gingerly of his neck.
A car turned at t
he end of the street.
“Let’s get out of here!” Navvy took Movius’ arm, led the way running between the buildings and around the rear. As they turned the corner, Movius glanced back, saw the car stop beside the fallen attackers, disgorge four men. One man he recognized—Loren Addington, the fat chief of Bu-Con. Movius felt the gun in his hand, all of the hate seeming to flow out through that hand. Here was one of the Com-Burs High-Opps who had put him in this position. He lifted the gun, fired twice at the figures beside the car, saw one topple, clutching his side. Not Addington, though; the fat man ducked behind his car.
Movius felt Navvy tugging at his arm. “Come on!”
They found an open service entrance to a Warren, ran down a flight of steps to a boiler room, behind the boiler to the conduit tunnel. “Thank Roper for standard construction,” panted Navvy. “We’re somewhere under Richmond Warrenate. Have to get out of here before they block off the tunnels, smoke us out. We’ll head northeast.”
It seemed they were an hour running in the tunnels, down ladders, up ladders, twisting, turning. Movius was hopelessly turning around. For some reason, he didn’t think about that. He was remembering the fight. He couldn’t explain to himself why the action had left him feeling refreshed. It was as though he had needed the violence. The battle had been like a catharsis, easing the tensions inside him. He felt washed clean, ignored the pain in his jaw where the man had kicked him.
Navvy slowed and Movius began to consider the implications of the fight. He called out softly, “How did they know where to find us?”
Navvy stopped, wiped perspiration from his forehead. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I think someone spotted you talking to Clancy.”
“Oh?”
“And they made Clancy talk.”
“How much did Clancy know?”
“Only that I was going to meet my friends near that sewer service dome.”
“Fine friends!”
“They may have been picked up.”
“And Clancy didn’t know anything else?”
Navvy shook his head. “Not even where we meet. He’s new.”
“What will they do to Clancy?”
“A body in the river. He knew the chance he took.”
Movius thought about Clancy, quick-moving, alive. Now a dead thing in the river. So that’s the kind of a fight it is? But I knew that. In a subdued tone, he said, “Let’s go.”
They stayed in the tunnels, first on one level, then another. Twice they smelled the residue of chlorine. The tunnel opened finally into another boiler room, from there into a smaller storage room occupied by five people, four men and a woman. The room pulsed with a faint vibration which made him uneasy, his skin tingly. Then he recognized it—he was near an unmounted scrambler, a portable one. No spy beam could penetrate this room. It wouldn’t even react to the room. No room. He was almost close enough to touch the people before he recognized the woman as the mouse-creature who had directed him here—Grace London. Strange that he had remembered her as sallow, grey. Her face held a clean, lively look now. And her hair was out of the bun, rolling back softly from her forehead. She wasn’t beautiful, but she had something. He decided the word was vitality.
An old man stood beside her. That would be Navvy’s father, Quilliam London. The old man snorted. “You gave us a scare.”
“What happened to our escort?” asked Navvy.
“I sent Bowden and Ladde,” said Quilliam London. “They were picked up by a patrol. That stupid Bowden had a grease pencil in his pocket with some grit from a concrete wall still in it. They knew what he’d been writing on the walls.”
Navvy paled. “Did they take them in for …”
“They tried to fight their way out of it,” said Quilliam London. “Now we need two more couriers.” He turned to Movius. “Good to see you, Mr. Movius. Won’t you sit down?”
Come into my parlour, thought Movius. He had an instant feeling of dislike for the old man. Too cold about those poor couriers.
Quilliam London motioned for Navvy to pull out folding chairs from a corner of the storage room. A flickering orange glow from the open door of the boiler room washed over the old man’s face as he turned. It gave him a hawk-like, demoniacal look. The others in the room moved closer and Movius saw that one of those he had thought to be a man actually was another woman, a flat-chested giant.… Eyes widening, he recognized her. The cook. Marie something, from the Warren. The one who had silenced the LP tough. Movius nodded to her.
“Sit down,” said Quilliam London. Movius took one of the chairs. The old man bent his stiff frame into a chair opposite and scratched at his chin. “My son here is a very discerning young man, Mr. Movius. He feels you would be valuable to our cause. For that reason, I’ve gathered here some people whose information you will find interesting. First, Mr. Janus Peterson.” London sounded vaguely like the announcer at the festival shows.
A beefy, muscular man on Movius’ right hitched a chair forward. As the man moved closer, Movius saw that he was built like a barrel, with really tremendous girth. Janus Peterson. He had large, wide-set blue eyes which blinked rapidly before he spoke. A flat nose gave him the look of a fighter.
Peterson’s eyes blinked like shutters. “Mr. Movius, my brother-in-law works in Bu-Labor.” The voice was husky. “He’s a kind of a clerk. He give me this today.” The man extended a piece of paper. Movius took the paper, glanced at it, looked back to Peterson. The man said, “That’s a carbon of an order sent out to Bu-Supply today. It says to get an issue of Arctic clothing ready for a Daniel Movius who is going into the ALP. That’s your number, ain’t it?”
Movius looked at the number. Yes, it was his. He nodded. So this was the LP grapevine. Efficient. He gave Navvy a searching look. Navvy winked at him.
Quilliam London grasped the arm of a man at his right, leaned forward. “This is Arthur VanDyne. He’s in Bu-Labor.” Again that vague suggestion of a man announcing the next act. Something a little off-beat here.
Arthur VanDyne was a pale-faced, frightened-looking little man who sat on the edge of his chair, knees close together. “I’m a file clerk, Mr. Movius,” he said. The man’s voice was high-pitched, squeaky. “Sometimes when I’m working in the files I hear things. They’re high, the files, you understand, and if someone is on the other side of the files, in the other aisle, talking, you can hear them quite well if you put your ear to the metal.”
Movius had a mental picture of Arthur VanDyne with his pale, frightened face bent close to a filing case, listening. It was a disquieting picture, somehow. He wondered how many there were like this. Frightened. Listening.
VanDyne cleared his throat in a precise manner, found a handkerchief and dabbed at his lips. “I heard two of the confidential clerks talking today.” He replaced the handkerchief in a pocket, clasped his hands in his lap. “They’re the ones who work directly out of the chief’s office. One said, ‘We got this order out of the Sorter today, but the chief said to lose it for about six weeks. Why do you suppose he wants us to do that?’ And the other one said, ‘Don’t ask too many questions. What’s the guy’s name?’ Then the first one said, ‘Daniel Movius, number …’” He fumbled in a pocket. “Here, I wrote it down.”
Movius took the paper. It was his number.
VanDyne went on: “Then the second one asked, ‘Where’s he going?’ And the first one said, ‘CR-14 in Bu-Trans, whatever that is.’ And that’s all I know, Mr. Movius.”
“We’ve already met, haven’t we, Mr. Movius?” It was the big cook, still with that casual look of authority the cooks had.
Movius nodded, wondering what connection she had with this business. One thing sure—she’d saved him from a nasty time back there in the Warren dining room.
“My sister is in Bu-Trans,” said the woman. “Her name is Tyle Cotton and she works in the armory, passing out weapons. She used to be …” The woman paused, wet her lips with her tongue.
“She used to run his bedroom,” the cook said. “Th
at was before she got blocky like me. Gerard’s a big-headed little squirt, bald as an egg, really little, but he likes his women large. The bigger the better, but curvy, not square.” Again the cook wet her lips with her tongue. “My sister hates Gerard; and she’s been working with the head of CR-14, Rafe Newton, to get Gerard.”
“Oh?” That agreed with what O’Brien had said.
“CR-14 is the spy outfit for the government,” said the woman. “It’s really important. It used to be Gerard’s ace in the hole; now he’s losing it.”
“What’s this have to do with me?” asked Movius.
Quilliam London extended a long, bony finger, tapped Movius on the knee. “Gerard fed some job specifications into the Sorter today. He doesn’t know yet, as Arthur here pointed out, that your card came up fitting those specifications. He will know it, though, given time.”
“About six weeks?” asked Movius.
London nodded, scratched his chin. “If you report for work, Gerard is going to give you the job of cleaning out this Department CR-14.”
“Just like that?”
“You fit his specifications.” London narrowed his eyes almost to slits. “You know what we are, of course?”
“You’re Seps.”
“That’s right. Can you imagine how valuable it would be to us to have a man in the government’s spy organization?”
“I have a rough idea.” Movius glanced at Navvy standing behind his father. “Can you hide me?”
Quilliam London said, “I believe so.”
“There’s one thing still not clear to me,” said Movius. “Why did Glass do this to me?”
The old man stood up, unbending slowly. He looked like a knobby walking stick. “Mr. Glass wanted your fiancée. We have found that Mr. Glass usually gets what he wants and keeps it until he is tired of it.”
That was what O’Brien had said. It must be true then. Movius felt more confidence in the LP grapevine than he had in O’Brien. Helmut Glass! You want somebody’s woman? You just flick a little finger and that somebody falls over dead. Not yet, Helmut!
Four Unpublished Novels Page 5
