The Second H. Beam Piper Omnibus

by H. Beam Piper

  "Wantta bet one of those little cherubs doesn't try to scalp another before the day's out?” Yetsko whispered.

  Prestonby shook his head. “No bet. Remember that film on the Spanish Inquisition, that we had to discontinue?"

  It was then that the light on the classroom screen, which had been flickering green and white, suddenly began flashing Prestonby's wanted-at-office signal.

  * * * *

  Prestonby found Frank Cardon looking out of the screen in his private office. The round, ordinarily cheerful, face was serious, but the innocent blue eyes were as unreadable as ever. He was wearing one of the new Mexican charro-style jackets, black laced with silver.

  "I can't see all your office, Ralph,” he said as Prestonby approached. “Are you alone?"

  "Doug Yetsko's all,” Prestonby said, and, as Cardon hesitated, added: “Don't be silly, Frank; he's my bodyguard. What could I be in that he wouldn't know all about?"

  Cardon nodded. “Well, we're in a jam up to here.” A handwave conveyed the impression that the sea of troubles had risen to his chin. He spoke at some length, describing the fight between Chester Pelton and Stephen S. Bayne, the Literate strike at Pelton's Purchasers’ Paradise, Pelton's heart attack, and the circumstances of Claire's opening the safe. “So you see,” he finished. “Maybe Latterman tried to kill Pelton, maybe he just tried to do what he did. I can't take chances either way."

  Prestonby thought furiously. “You say Claire's alone at the store with her father?"

  "And a couple of store cops, sterling characters with the hearts of lions and the brains of goldfish,” Cardon replied. “And Russ Latterman, and maybe four or five Conservative goons he's managed to infiltrate into the store."

  Prestonby was still thinking, aloud, now. “Maybe they did mean to kill Pelton; in that case, they'll try again. Or maybe they only wanted to expose Claire's literacy. It's hard to say what else they'd try-maybe kidnap her, to truth-drug her and use her as a guest-artist on a Conservative telecast. I'm going over to the store, now."

  "That's a good idea, Ralph. If you hadn't thought of it, I was going to suggest it. Land on the central stage, ask for Sergeant Coccozello of the store police, and give my name. Even aside from everything else, it'd be a good idea to have somebody there who can read and dares admit it, till a new crew of Literates can get there. You were speaking about the possibility of kidnaping; how about the boy? Ray?"

  Prestonby nodded. “I'll have him come here to my office, and stay there till I get back; I'll have Yetsko stay with him.” He turned to where the big man in black leather stood guard at the door. “Doug, go get Ray Pelton and bring him here. Check with Miss Collins for where he'd be, now.” He turned back to the screen. “Anything else, Frank?"

  "Isn't that enough?” the brewer-Literate demanded. “I'll call you at the store, after a while. ‘Bye."

  The screen darkened as Cardon broke the connection. Prestonby got to his feet, went to his desk, and picked up a pipe, digging out the ashes from the bowl with an ice pick that one of the teachers had taken from a sixteen-year-old would-be murderer. He checked his tablet gun, made sure that there was an extra loaded clip in the holster, and got two more spare clips from the arms locker. Then, to make sure, he called Pelton's store, talking for a while to the police sergeant Cardon had mentioned. By the time he was finished, the door opened and Yetsko ushered Ray Pelton in.

  "What's happened?” the boy asked. “Doug told me that the Senator ... my father ... had another heart attack."

  "Yes, Ray. I don't believe he's in any great danger. He's at the store, resting in his office.” He went on to tell the boy what had happened, exactly and in full detail. He was only fifteen, but already he had completed the four-year reading course and he could think a great deal more logically than seventy per cent of the people who were legally entitled to vote. Ray listened seriously, and proved Prestonby's confidence justified by nodding.

  "Frame-up,” he said succinctly. “Stinks like a glue factory of a put-up job. Something's going to happen to Russ Latterman, one of these days."

  "I think you'd better let Frank Cardon take care of him, Ray,” Prestonby advised. “I think there are more angles to this than he told me. Now, I'm going over to the store. Somebody's got to stay with Claire. I want you to stay here, in this room. If anybody sends you any message supposed to be from me, just ignore it. It'll be a trap. If I want to get in touch with you, I'll call you, with vision-image."

  "Mean somebody might try to kidnap me, or Claire, to force the Senator to withdraw, or something?” Ray asked, his eyes widening.

  "You catch on quickly, Ray,” Prestonby commended him. “Doug, you stay with Ray till I get back. Don't let him out of your sight for an instant. At noon, have Miss Collins get lunches for both of you sent up; if I'm not back by fifteen-hundred, take him to his home, and stay with him there."

  * * * *

  For half an hour, Frank Cardon made a flying tour of Radical-Socialist borough headquarters. Even at the Manhattan headquarters, which he visited immediately after his talk with Prestonby, the news had already gotten out. The atmosphere of optimistic triumph which had undoubtedly followed Mongery's telecast and his report on the Trotter Poll, had evaporated. The Literate clerical help was gathered in a tight knot, obviously a little worried, and just as obviously enjoying the reaction. In smaller and constantly changing groups, the volunteers, the paid helpers, the dirt-squirters, the goon gangs, gathered, talking in worried or frightened or angry voices. When Cardon entered and was recognized, there was a concerted movement toward him. His two regular bodyguards, both on leave from the Literate storm troops, moved quickly to range themselves on either side of him. With a gesture, he halted the others.

  "Hold it!” he called. “I know what you're worried about. I was there when it happened, and saw everything."

  He paused, to let them assimilate that, and continued: “Now get this, all of you! Our boss, and-if he lives-our next senator, was the victim of a deliberate murder attempt, by Literate First Class Bayne, who threw out his supply of nitrocaine bulbs and then goaded him into a heart attack which, except for his daughter, would have been fatal. Claire Pelton deserves the deepest gratitude of every Radical-Socialist in the state. She's a smart girl, and she saved the life of her father and our leader.

  "But-she is not a Literate!” he cried loudly. “All she did was something any of you could have done-something I've done, myself, so that I won't be locked out of my own safe and have to wait for a Literate to come and open, it for me. She simply kept her eye on the Literates who were opening the safe, and learned the combination from the positions to which they turned the dial. And you believe, on the strength of that, that she's a Literate? The next thing, you'll be believing that professional liar of a Slade Gardner. And you call yourselves politicians!” He fairly gargled obscenities.

  Looking around, he caught sight of a pair who seemed something less than impressed with his account of it. Joe West, thick-armed, hairy-chested, blue-jowled; Horace Yingling, thin and gangling. They weren't Radical-Socialist party people; they were from the Political Action Committee of the Consolidated Illiterates Organization, and their slogan was simpler and more to the point than Chester Pelton's-the only good Literate is a dead Literate. He tensed himself and challenged them directly.

  "Joe; Horace. How about you? Satisfied the Pelton girl isn't a Literate, now?"

  Yingling looked at West, and West looked back at him questioningly. Evidently the suavitor in modo was Yingling's province, and the fortior in re was West's.

  "Yeh, sure, Mr. Cardon,” Yingling said dubiously. “Now that you explain it, we see how it was."

  * * * *

  It was worse than that in some of the other boroughs. One fanatic, imagining that Cardon himself was a crypto-Literate, drew a gun. Cardon's guards disarmed him and beat him senseless. At another headquarters, some character was circulating about declaring that not only Claire Pelton but her younger brother, Ray, as well, were Liter
ates. Cardon's two men hustled him out of the building, and, after about twenty minutes, returned alone. Cardon hoped that the body would not be found until after the polls closed, the next day.

  Finally, leaving his guards with the ‘copter at a public landing stage, he made his way, by devious routes, to William R. Lancedale's office, and found Lancedale at his desk, seeming not to have moved since he had showed his agent out earlier in the day.

  "Well, we're in a nice puddle of something-or-other,” Cardon greeted him. “On top of that Gardner telecast, this morning—"

  "Guthrie Parham's taking care of that, and everything's going to be done to ridicule Gardner,” Lancedale told him. “And even this business at the store can be turned to some advantage. Before we're through, we may gain more votes than we lose for Pelton. And we had an informal meeting-Joyner for Retail Merchandising, Starke for Grievance Settlements, and four or five others including myself, to make up a quorum. We had Bayne in, and heard his story of it, and we got a report from one of our stoolies in the store. Bayne thought he was due for a commendation; instead, he got an eat-out. Of course, it was a fact that Pelton'd hit him, and we can't have Literates punched around, regardless of provocation. So we voted to fine Pelton ten million for beating Bayne up, and to award him ten million for losses resulting from unauthorized withdrawal of Literate services. We ordered a new crew of Literates to the store, and we exiled Bayne to Brooklyn, to something called Stillman's Used Copter and Junk Bazaar. For the next few months, the only thing he'll find that's round and pinchable will be second-hand tires. But don't be too hard on him; I think he did us a favor."

  "You mean, starting a rift between Pelton and the Consolidated Illiterates’ Organization, which we can widen after the election?"

  "No. I hadn't thought of it that way, Frank,” Lancedale smiled. “It's an idea worth keeping in mind, and we'll exploit it, later. What I was thinking about was the more immediate problem of the election—"

  The buzzer on Lancedale's desk interrupted, and a voice came out of the commo box:

  "Message, urgent and private, sir. Source named as Sforza."

  Cardon recognized the name. Maybe the Independent-Conservatives have troubles, too, he thought hopefully. Then Lancedale's video screen became the frame for an almost unbelievably commonplace set of features.

  "Sforza, sir,” the man in the screen said. “Sorry I'm late, but I was able to get out of the building only a few minutes ago, and I had to make sure I wasn't wearing a tail. I have two new facts. First, the Conservatives have been bringing storm troops in from outside, from Philadelphia, and from Wilkes-Scranton, and from Buffalo. They are being concentrated in lower Manhattan, in plain clothes, with only concealed weapons, and carrying their hoods folded up under their coats. Second, I overheard a few snatches of conversation between two of the Conservative storm troop leaders, as follows: ‘...Start it in China ... thirteen-thirty,’ and ‘...Important to make it appear either spontaneous or planned for business motives.’”

  "Try to get us more information, as quickly as possible,” Lancedale directed. “Obviously, we should know, by about thirteen hundred, what's being planned."

  "Right, sir.” Lancedale's spy at Independent-Conservative headquarters nodded and vanished from the screen.

  "What does it sound like to you, Frank?” Lancedale asked.

  "China is obviously a code-designation for some place in downtown Manhattan, where the Conservative goon gangs are being concentrated. The only thing I can say is that it probably is not Chinatown. They'd either say ‘Chinatown’ and not ‘China,’ or they would use some code-designation that wasn't so close to the actual name,” Cardon considered. “What they're going to start, at thirteen-thirty, which is only two hours and a half from now, is probably some kind of a riot."

  "A riot which could arise from business motives,” Lancedale added. “That sounds like the docks, or the wholesale district, or the garment district, or something like that.” He passed his hand rapidly over the photoelectric eye of the commo box. “Get me Major Slater,” he said; and, a little later, “Major, get a platoon out to Long Island, to Chester Pelton's home; have the place searched for possible booby traps, and maintain guard there till further notice. You'll have no trouble with the servants, they're all in our pay. That platoon must not, repeat not, wear uniform or appear to have any connection with the Fraternities. Put another platoon in Pelton's store. Concealed weapons, and plain clothes. They should carry their leather helmets in shopping bags, and roam about in the store, ostensibly shopping. And a full company, uniformed and armed with heavy weapons, alerted and ready for immediate ‘copter movement.” He went on to explain about the intelligence report and the conclusions drawn from it. The guards officer repeated back his instructions, and Lancedale broke the connection.

  "Now, Frank,” he said, “I told you that this revelation of Claire Pelton's Literacy can be turned to our advantage. There's to be a full Council meeting at thirteen hundred. Here's what I estimate Joyner and Graves will try to do, and here's what I'm going to do to counter it—"

  * * * *

  A couple of men in the maroon uniform of Pelton's store police were waiting as Prestonby's ‘copter landed on the top stage; one of them touched his cap-visor with his gas-billy in salute and said: “Literate Prestonby? Miss Pelton is expecting you; she's in her father's office. This way, if you please, sir."

  He had hoped to find her alone, but when he entered the office, he saw five or six of the store personnel with her. Since opening her father's safe, she had evidently dropped all pretense of Illiteracy; there was a mass of papers spread on the big desk, and she was referring from one to another of them with the deft skill of a regular Fraternities Literate, while the others watched in fascinated horror.

  "Wait a moment, Mr. Hutschnecker,” she told the white-haired man in the blue and orange business suit with whom she had been talking, and laid the printed price-schedule down, advancing to meet him.

  "Ralph!” she greeted him. “Frank Cardon told me you were coming. I—"

  For a moment, he thought of the afternoon, over two years ago, when she had entered his office at the school, and he had recognized her as the older sister of young Ray Pelton.

  "Professor Prestonby,” she had begun, accusingly, “you have been teaching my brother, Raymond Pelton, to read!"

  He had been prepared for that; had known that sooner or later there would be some minor leak in the security screen around the classrooms on the top floor.

  "My dear Miss Pelton,” he had protested pleasantly. “I think you've become overwrought over nothing. This pretense to Literacy is a phase most boys of Ray's age pass through; they do it just as they play air-pirates or hi-jackers a few years earlier. The usual trick is to memorize something heard from a record disk, and then pretend to read it from print."

  "Don't try to kid me, professor. I know that Ray can read. I can prove it."

  "And supposing he has learned a few words,” he had parried. “Can you be sure I taught him? And if so, what had you thought of doing about it? Are you going to expose me as a corrupter of youth?"

  "Not unless I have to,” she had replied coolly. “I'm going to blackmail you, professor. I want you to teach me to read, too."

  Now, with this gang of her father's Illiterate store officials present, a quick handclasp and a glance were all they could exchange.

  "How is he, Claire?” he asked.

  "Out of danger, for the present. There was a medic here, who left just before you arrived. He brought nitrocaine bulbs, and gave father something to make him sleep. He's lying down, back in his rest room.” She led him to a door at the rear of the office and motioned him to enter, following him. “He's going to sleep for a couple of hours, yet."

  The room was a sort of bedroom and dressing room, with a miniscule toilet and shower beyond. Pelton was lying on his back, sleeping; his face was pale, but he was breathing easily and regularly. Two of the store policemen, a sergeant and a patrolman,
were playing cards on the little table, and the patrolman had a burp gun within reach.

  "All right, sergeant,” Claire said. “You and Gorman go out to the office. Call me if anything comes up that needs my attention, in the next few minutes."

  The sergeant started to protest. Claire cut him off.

  "There's no danger here. This Literate can be trusted; he's a friend of Mr. Cardon's. Works at the brewery. It's all right."

  The two rose and went out, leaving the door barely ajar. Prestonby and Claire, like a pair of marionettes on the same set of strings, cast a quick glance at the door and then were in each other's arms. Chester Pelton slept placidly as they kissed and whispered endearments.

  It was Claire who terminated the embrace, looking apprehensively at her slumbering father.

  "Ralph, what's it all about?” she asked. “I didn't even know that you and Frank Cardon knew each other, let alone that he had any idea about us."

  Prestonby thought furiously, trying to find a safe path through the tangle of Claire Pelton's conflicting loyalties, trying to find a path between his own loyalties and his love for her, wondering how much it would be safe to tell her.

  "And Cardon's gone completely cloak-and-dagger-happy,” she continued. “He's talking about plots against my father's life, and against me, and—"

  "A lot of things are going on under cloaks, around here,” he told her. “And under Literate smocks, and under other kinds of costume. And a lot of daggers are out, too. You didn't know Frank Cardon was a Literate, did you?"

  Her eyes widened. “I thought I was Literate enough to spot Literacy in anybody else,” she said. “No, I never even suspected—"