Planetary Agent X

by Mack Reynolds

  “Whuz the matter?” he slurred.

  Billy came nearer. “I saw you drop somethun, just when you was coming out of that there house there.”

  The other fumbled hands over pockets, absently. “Oh,” he said. Then, finally, “What?”

  “I don’t know what,” Billy said plaintively. “I just saw you drop somethun, just when you were coining out of the lobby like.”

  The half-drunken, half asleep one grunted a sigh and started back for the door from which he had emerged. Billy followed him into the hall.

  The drunk peered around. “I don’t see noth—”

  Billy clipped him over the back of the right ear expertly with the butt of the gun.

  He couldn’t safely leave him here. He couldn’t even take the time to frisk him here. He grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and hauled him slowly toward the back recesses of the hall. Given luck, he wouldn’t be found until other inhabitants of the building issued forth later in the day. Especially if Billy did some more in the way of darkening lights.

  He sent his hands briskly over the other’s clothing. He was interested in nothing beyond the credit card, and found it without undue effort.

  He stood and looked down at his victim. One of his tutors, Piero Caravaggio, of the Agrigento staff, had once told him that if you kicked an unconscious man in the side of the head a couple of times, he wasn’t able to remember your description upon regaining consciousness. It sounded unlikely to Billy, but when you had only one chance in a million, you couldn’t afford to ignore any opportunity to better your odds. He kicked twice.

  Before the romp which had culminated in the elimination of Giorgio Schiavoni, Billy had spent a few days with some of the boys sampling the fleshpots of Greater Washington. Thus it was that he was acquainted with the location of those areas of town which catered to the nightowl set, or the workers, theatrical and otherwise, which in any big city must be fed and ministered to at all hours. He summoned a copter-cab at the next corner, dialed the coordinates he wanted and took it to within several blocks of his destination. When the cab stopped, he hesitated. He could do one of two things: press his newly acquired credit card to the cab’s payment screen, which would automatically open the door for him, or break the lock and escape. Which would, of course, immediately set the powers that be after him.

  No, the safest thing was to use the card. The drunk he had rolled, with any luck at all, would still be unconscious. Would certainly not as yet have noticed the loss of his card. In fact, given the Antrim luck, the yoke probably would get himself home and into bed to sleep it all off, before discovering his loss. Even then, he would probably list it as lost, rather than stolen—given the Antrim luck.

  Billy pressed his card to the cab’s screen and dismounted from the vehicle, which took off into the traffic just beginning to materialize.

  He went into a monstrously large cafeteria type restaurant which catered to actors, musicians and the like. He ate once and hugely for the sake of his stomach as it was. Then he went back and past the array of foods once again, this time selecting such items as fruit, bread rolls, sandwiches and cake, which he could carry with him, and returned with these items to his table, tucked away in a largely unoccupied cove of the dining room. There he wrapped them up in an abandoned theatrical publication he had found.

  With his package under his arm, he went to the men’s room and did all that was possible to erase the ravages of the past three days. He wasn’t going to be able to be conspicuous on the streets. He had no illusions; every police authority on the planet Earth was on the lookout for Billy Antrim. Happily, his beard was so light as to be almost meaningless, which was a godsend, since he had no shaving facilities.

  By the time he issued from the restaurant, it was fully day and he merged into the foot traffic on the pedestrian level of the street.

  He had got no more than a block before whining sirens ululated behind him. He came to a shocked halt. This was too quick. The drunk should still be unconscious, still groggy enough not to realize his credit card had been lifted. But even if he had recovered, the fuzz-yokes shouldn’t be on Billy yet.

  An auto-department store had opened side doors for the entry of its few workers. Billy Antrim entered briskly, strode at the same speed as the others, went to the lifters and took one to the third floor. He went over to the windows and looked back the way he had come.

  There were three floaters, obviously police floaters, pulled up before the restro-cafeteria from which he had emerged only moments before, and disgorging hurrying men, some in uniform. His lips were white over his prominent teeth in a wolf-grin.

  Had he known it, Billy Antrim was at that moment looking at the back of his eventual Nemesis, the man who would send him to his death.

  XVII

  Ronny Bronston strode quickly into the interior of the restro-cafeteria, flanked by Lieutenant Rogozhsky of the Baltimore section of Greater Washington’s police. Rogozhsky was highly sceptical.

  Ronny said sharply, “Have your men go through the place. Thoroughly. Then take on the neighborhood. If he’s not here, we’ve probably missed him, but possibly not. He probably needs clothes, a razor, that sort of thing. He might be in a nearby store.”

  Rogozhsky said sceptically, “You don’t even know this is him. For that matter, you don’t even know he’s in the city.”

  Ronny Bronston flicked open a wallet container. The badge inside said simply, “Section G, Bureau of Investigation,” and it gleamed with a silver sheen.

  Ronny said flatly, “I am giving orders, Lieutenant, not debating opinions.”

  Lieutenant Rogozhsky flushed, came to the salute and muttered, “Yes, sir.” He turned to his men and took out some of his feelings on them.

  Ronny said, “We’re police. Twenty minutes ago somebody here ate a fantastically large meal, then, on the same credit card, bought a great deal of picnic type food. Did you see him—or her?”

  The manager was shaking his head. “This place’s completely automated, Citizen… whoever you are. We aren’t one of these swanky joints with waiters and all that jetsam. We don’t specially notice nobody that comes in here. We only got four people on a shift. How’d you expect…”

  Ronny said urgently, “A young fellow. Maybe twenty years old. He probably sat off by himself. He was possibly a little shabby in appearance. Even dirty. He probably finally left with a package under his arm—the extra food he’d bought. He probably spent quite a time in the wash room.”

  “Hey,” the other exclaimed. “You’re right. A young fella. He sat over there. Over in that corner. He was kind of rumpled up, like he maybe slept in his clothes. He went into the washroom and stayed there quite a time. Then when he went out he had this paper bundle under his arm.”

  “How long ago?” Ronny snapped.

  “Hell, maybe five minutes before you come in!”

  “Lieutenant!” Ronny yelled. “It’s him! Get your men on the streets. Get on your communicator for more floaters. He left no more than five minutes ago!”

  Lieutenant Rogozhsky was a competent officer, no matter what his opinion might be in regard to Bureau of Investigation bigwigs interfering with his department’s affairs. He got on the ball.

  Ronny Bronston took a small communicator of his own from an inner pocket. It looked innocuously like a woman’s vanity case. He sat down at a table, propped it before him and clicked it on.

  He snapped to whoever was at the other end. “It’s Antrim. We’re no more than five minutes behind him. He’s got himself a credit card somewhere. We’ll check back on that later. I suspected he’d be desperately hungry and that the first time he ate it would be a gargantuan meal, followed by something he could take along. I had the computors watching for such an order. It came through. The credit card he’s got is 25X-3342-K852-Division GW. Alert all computors to check every purchase on that card. Alert at least a thousand police floaters, all over the city. We’re in the Baltimore area, but he might already have taken a pneumatic
somewhere else. They’re to be on instant alert for when he uses that card the next time.”

  Billy Antrim had intuition as well as cunning. He ditched the credit card in the first waste chute he passed and left the department store by a back entry.

  He strode, seemingly at ease, hands in pockets again, and slouching like a high school youngster. But nonchalant though his pace seemed, he made the best time he could without looking as though he was in a hurry. Several police floaters, dashing about in high state of efficient confusion, passed him by, going this way, going that.

  With his left hand he loosened the weapon in his belt. It was getting warm. Much too warm. They were bringing in every fuzz-yoke in the city.

  He stopped at a traffic regulator and spoke to the occupant of a floater who was impatiently waiting a go-ahead.

  Billy stuck his head in the window, grinned ruefully and said, “Ay, citizen, you goin’ over toward the river?”

  The citizen in question scowled at him. “What of it?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. You’ll probably just laugh but…”

  The other grunted, darted a look at the regulator. He was still held up. It’d take more than some youngster’s minor tragedy, whatever it was, to make him laugh this time of day, especially since he hadn’t even had time for coffee.

  Billy was saying plaintively, “… so the fellas though it’d be a big joke to swipe my junior I.D. credit card. And when the party was over, here I am, and I can’t even take a pneumatic.”

  “Okay, okay, climb in. I’m not going to cancel my dial, though. I’ll take you as close as we get to wherever you’re going. Then you’ll have to manage however you can.”

  “Gosh, thanks a million, Citizen.”

  Billy climbed in, slouched down in the seat, teenage style, and watched city, traffic and pedestrians go by. The fuzz-yoke was getting thicker by the minute.

  The floater swung up to a higher level for speed and Billy noted the passing of the town below with satisfaction. They’d have Baltimore behind them in moments.

  His benefactor remained glumly silent, which was all right so far as Billy Antrim was concerned, until they reached the vicinity of the Potomac.

  He said, then, “You said the river, boy. Where do you want me to drop you?”

  Billy Antrim said softly, “You aren’t dropping me, Mac. I’m dropping you.”

  The other blurted, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Billy brought the gun from his belt with an easy motion and held it on the other’s waist. “This is a romp, Mac. Put the floater on manual, and let’s get down.”

  “Why, you damn…” The other reached for him, in fury.

  With a fluid speed, Billy slapped him hard against the side of the head with the gun barrel. Then he slugged him again, more deliberately, but more effectively.

  Billy sneered. Once a yoke, always a yoke. It was like Big Luigi had always said. You never got over it. You’re born a yoke and you die one.

  He frowned at the thought. Who was he to be appreciating Luigi Agrigento? Luigi had treated him as though he was a yoke himself. Even as he was turning the floater controls to manual, Billy Antrim had the first twinge of doubt about the philosophy in which he had been raised. Maybe this citizen he had just slugged was only a yoke, but Billy wondered if he would have sent what amounted to a son to his sure death to gain only a minor advantage, a Maffeo revenge.

  Fortunately, his victim was an even smaller man than was Billy Antrim. By considerable effort he was able to boost him over the front seat into the back and down on the floor of the vehicle. Billy then gave him another tap on the temple—with the butt of the gun this time.

  He brought the vehicle to a near-stop and considered his situation. He was without a credit card again. He had one possibility that came to him immediately. He could lift this yoke’s card, kill him rather than just leaving him unconscious, get out of the floater after dialing it to, say, Mexico City, and then have the use of the card for possibly as much as twenty-four hours before the floater and its body were discovered. The auto drive would take it clear through to Mexico, and tucked down on the floor like this, the yoke would probably never be spotted.

  He didn’t know why he decided against the step. Perhaps, for one thing, he wasn’t sure he’d have the use of the card for that length of time. He couldn’t figure out how the fuzz-yoke had got onto him so quickly with that last credit card he’d stolen. There must be some angle he wasn’t aware of.

  He sneered self-deprecation and dialed the floater toward the Norfolk section of the city. It was about as far as he could get from where they’d flushed him in the Baltimore area, and besides, it was one of the oldest and least respectable sections of town—where the interplanetary spacemen hung out, and those that were this millennium’s nearest equivalent to the slum elements of an earlier age. His clothes would attract less attention here.

  When he put down, in as quiet a vicinity as he could find, he took up his bundle of food, slipped his newly acquired credit card into his pocket, slugged his benefactor once more for luck, and dialed the floater’s controls to Richmond. After it had disappeared with its unconscious passenger, Billy faded into the neighborhood.

  XVIII

  Ronny Bronston was looking on the harassed side, and Sid Jakes’ grin of derision didn’t make him feel any the happier.

  Ronny said, “He’s got a new credit card. One that he got from an electrical engineer whose apartment is in the Baltimore area. A fellow named Ernest Gutenberg.”

  Sid flicked a switch. “What did you say the number was?”

  “78Y-7634-L991 and, of course, Division GW.”

  “How do you know it was Antrim?”

  “Who else? We were minutes behind him. Somehow he managed to get into Gutenberg’s floater. The man’s wife says that he was heading for his office, near the Capitol Building Museum. When he was found, on the floor of the back seat, his credit card was gone and the floater had come to a halt in the center of the Richmond area. By the way, Billy’s score, here on Earth, has gone up to seven. Gutenberg died from concussion. Seven dead, half a dozen wounded in varying degree.”

  Sid Jakes nodded, his face grim for once. “The little rat is a one man task force.” He bounced up from his chair, walked unhappily about his desk, sat down again. “Maybe we ought to put more men on it,” he groused.

  “No!” Ronny blurted.

  Sid looked at him and chuckled. “Getting to be a matter of pride, eh? Where do you think he is?”

  “Probably in the Norfolk area. He hasn’t used his new card yet. That youngster’s like a cornered fox. He hasn’t done anything wrong yet…” Ronny Bronston took in the amused expression on his superior’s face and growled. “I mean he hasn’t done anything wrong from his viewpoint. With his luck, he should have become a gambler instead of a professional gun for hire.”

  “Why Norfolk?” Jakes said.

  “It’s the farthest point from Baltimore still in Greater Washington. And, besides, it’s a section where he can stay the most inconspicuous. His clothes must be getting on the crumby side by now, but there are others with crumby clothes in Norfolk.”

  Sid said happily, “I’m glad it’s your problem, instead of mine. Where do you think he’s hiding himself?”

  Ronny didn’t answer. He said, instead, “Look, can you have Irene go to work on alerting every museum, every art gallery, every library in Greater Washington? Every place where entry is free and there are chairs, rest rooms and lots of people. Same for parks, zoos, that sort of thing. Alert all attendants at such places. Do we have a picture of him yet?”

  “No.” Jakes said. “Through our attaché in Palermo we’ve picked up all the dope on him we can, but no picture as yet. But we can have one of the artists do up a sketch based on his physical description. Buckteeth, light brown, almost blond hair, blue eyes.”

  “Okay,” Ronny said wearily, coming to his feet. “I think I’ll get over to the Norfolk area. If I had to disappear in th
is city, I think that’s where I’d head.”

  Sid chuckled amusement. “From what we’ve seen of this Billy Antrim, he’s probably one ahead of you. He figures that that’s where you’d figure he’d be, so he’s probably in some swank area such as Arlington, or maybe back in Baltimore.”

  “You’re great for my morale,” Ronny muttered. “How’s the rest of the case going?”

  Sid Jakes shook his head. “Stymied. Billy Antrim wasn’t a citizen of Palermo. The Palermo Embassy denies they had anything to do with the shooting of Giorgio Schiavoni. Claim it must have been a personal matter between Antrim and Schiavoni. In fact, they hint there was bad blood between the two, when Schiavoni and Billy were both back on Palermo. What’s more, they’re hinting rather heavily that even in questioning them about the matter, Article One is being strained, if not broken.”

  “Oh, swell,” Ronny said.

  “Worse than you think,” Sid grinned. “Ross is going drivel-happy. This is a real tough one. Most of the victims of our Section G shenanigans never know what hit them. They’re not looking for our particular type of double-dealing. Palermo’s another thing. The Maffeo lads suspect everybody, given cause or not. Our representatives on their planet are bugged, shadowed, have their mail read and their space cables scanned, automatically.”

  “So what’s the answer?” Ronny said.

  “We don’t have any answer. Not so far,” Sid said, as though pleased. “The way it looks to me, Luigi Agrigento and his Maffeo are going to live happily ever after, and Palermo is going to remain in the dark ages, whether or not the balance of United Planets continues to haul its way up by the bootstraps.”

  Ronny Bronston said, “I’m glad I’m only a bloodhound on this assignment. You and Ross can have the headaches.”

  XIX